THE    REAL    ISSUE 

A  BOOK  OF  KANSAS   STORIES 


THE  REAL  ISSUE 

A  BOOK  OF  KANSAS  STORIES 


BY 

WILLIAM    ALLEN    WHITE 


CHICAGO 

WAY  AND  WILLIAMS 
1897 


Ts 


FIRST  EDITION,  NOVEMBER  25,  1896 
SECOND  EDITION,  JANUARY  6,  1897 


CONTENTS 

The  Real  Issue  9 

The  Story  of  Aqua  Pura  22 

The  Prodigal  Daughter         -  -        39 

The  Record  on  the  Blotter       -  52 

The  King  of  Boyville  -        59 

A  Story  of  The  Highlands        -  75 

The  Fraud  of  Men     -  87 

The  Reading  of  the  Riddle      -  104 

The  Chief  Clerk's  Christmas  -      123 

The  Story  of  a  Grave     -  130 
The  Home-coming  of  Colonel  Hucks    -          -      146 

The  Regeneration  of  Colonel  Hucks  168 

The  Undertaker's  Trust       -  -      180 

That's  For  Remembrance  199 
A  Nocturne       .--...      2o6 


THE   REAL  ISSUE 


The  Real   Issue 

IT  was  near  the  close  of  a  long  session — 
a  session  which  had  lasted  a  winter  and 
a  spring  and  a  summer,  and  threatened  to 
push  itself  into  the  first  days  of  autumn, 
when  Wharton,  the  Western  member,  who 
had  been  in  the  house  five  terms,  concluded 
to  pack  his  valise  and  go  home.  The  cam 
paign  was  growing  warm.  Nearly  all  of  the 
county  conventions  had  been  held,  and  a 
majority  of  the  delegates  elected  were  in 
structed  for  him,  which  insured  his  renom- 
ination  if  the  three  remaining  counties  in 
the  district  did  not  go  solidly  against  him. 
He  had  laid  his  plans  mechanically  for  a 
renomination,  and  if  he  had  stopped  to  ask 
himself  whether  or  not  he  really  wanted  to 
come  back  to  congress,  he  would  probably 
have  said  no.  He  was  tired,  but  he  did 
not  know  why.  He  thought  he  needed 


io  The  Real  Issue 

rest,  that  he  had  been  overworked,  that  he 
was  played  out ;  yet  his  private  secretary, 
who  kept  the  run  of  the  pension  business 
and  did  his  routine  work,  did  not  seem 
tired, — the  private  secretary  even  had  re 
fused  a  vacation,  and  it  was  at  the  secre 
tary's  own  request  that  he  stayed  in 
Washington. 

But  Wharton,  the  Western  member,  was 
tired, — dead  tired ;  and  he  pictured  to  him 
self  the  pleasures  of  going  back  to  his  home 
in  the  little  town  of  Baxter,  where  people 
on  the  streets  who  had  seen  him  grow  up 
from  a  boy  and  called  him  "Tom,"  really 
were  glad  to  see  him.  Just  before  he  had 
left  his  rooms  for  the  departing  train  his 
private  secretary  had  handed  him  the  day's 
clippings;  and  after  he  had  been  riding  for 
an  hour  or  so,  while  he  was  fumbling  in  his 
pockets  for  a  match,  they  tumbled  out  in  a 
tight  little  roll.  He  idly  read  them.  He  was 
used  to  unjust  abuse  and  sick  of  uncalled- 
for  praise.  The  first  clipping  was  taken 
from  the  Queen  City  Daily  Herald;  it  bore 
a  Washington  date-line,  and  was  introduced 


The  Real  Issue  1 1 

by    the  words,    "Special    to   the   Herald.''1 
It  read : 

They  say  here  that  Wharton  of  the  Fourth 
District,  is  beginning  to  feel  uneasy.  He  has 
received  several  letters  from  his  district  that 
have  convinced  him  that  the  Populist  cyclone 
has  shaken  down  several  lengths  of  fence  in 
Lee,  Meade  and  Smith  counties.  Bill  Heat- 
ley's  strength  is  said  to  be  developing  down 
there  wonderfully.  The  Hon.  Ike  Russell, 
who  was  here  last  week  looking  for  a  job  as 
receiver  of  the  Baxter  National  bank,  was  in 
close  consultation  with  Wharton  three  of  the 
four  nights  he  was  here,  and  the  "old  man" 
is  wearing  a  hunted  look  and  is  talking  to 
himself.  They  say  down  in  the  Fourth  dis 
trict  that  it  will  take  more  than  "Our  Tom" 
Wharton's  hug  to  explain  away  his  silver  vote. 

Wharton  knew  the  correspondent  and 
only  smiled  as  he  flipped  the  wadded  clip 
ping  out  of  the  car  window.  There  was  a 
short  editorial  clipping  from  the  same  paper. 
It  said : 

The  dispatches  say  that  "Our  Tom"  Whar 
ton  is  wiggling  in  his  seat  and  trying  to 
project  his  astral  body  in  the  Fourth  district 
to  see  how  his  fences  are,  and  at  the  same  time 
to  keep  his  corporeal  body  in  Washington  to 
look  after  Ike  Russell's  pie  plate.  If  "Our 


12  The  Real  Issue 

Tom"  doesn't  fall  down  in  his  anxiety  to  keep 
one  foot  in  the  "bloody  Fourth"  and  the 
other  at  the  political  bake  shop,  he  must  be 
either  a  Colossus  of  Rhodes  or  a  "quadrille 
dancer." 

Wharton  dropped  that  on  the  floor  and 
read  another  from  the  Smith  County  Far 
mer 's  Friend.  It  was  long  and  full  of 
double  leads  and  "break  lines"  and  italics 
and  exclamation  points.  It  was  abusive  in 
the  extreme  and  closed  with  this  tirade: 

Now,  let  us  reason  together.  Tom  Wharton 
has  been  in  Congress  ten  years;  he  had 
been  judge  six  years  before  entering  Con 
gress,  and  county  superintendent  four  years 
before  he  was  judge.  Twenty  years  has 
this  man  been  in  office;  his  total  salary 
in  that  time  has  been  only  $70,000.  Yet  he  is 
rated  by  the  commercial  agencies  at  one-half 
million  dollars.  He  has  banks  and  railroad 
stocks;  he  owns  mortgages  and  farms.  Where 
did  he  get  them?  His  time  has  been  sold  to 
the  people;  he  has  been  false  to  every  trust; 
he  has  voted  with  the  East  on  the  money 
question;  he  has  neglected  the  farmers  at 
every  turn.  He  is  a  garden-seed  congress 
man;  he  comes  out  here  and  haw-haws  around, 
and  then  goes  back  to  vote  with  Wall  street. 
Wall  street  knows  its  friends,  and  "Our  Tom" 
is  worth  one-half  million  dollars,  lives  in  a 


The  Real  Issue  13 

mansion  filled  with  hammered  brass   at  Bax 
ter,  while  the  farmer  foots  the  bills. 

Wharton  knew  that  the  editor  of  the  Far 
mer's  Friend  had  been  a  candidate  for  the 
postoffice  at  Smith  City;  that  he  himself 
had  lent  the  editor  money  and  held  his  note 
for  $500.  He  put  the  clipping  in  his  pock 
et-book  with  a  sigh,  and  looked  through  the 
other  scraps  of  paper.  There  were  perhaps 
a  dozen — a  few  of  them  laudatory  to  an 
offensive  degree,  some  clearly  bids  for 
money,  and  the  rest  a  fair  discussion  of  his 
candidacy. 

Wharton's  first  week  in  the  district  was 
spent  at  Baxter.  He  did  practically  noth 
ing  to  secure  his  renomination,  although 
wise-looking  men  from  each  of  the  three 
doubtful  counties  came  nearly  every  day  to 
Baxter  and  went  directly  from  the  train  to 
Wharton's  house.  They  all  wanted  money 
or  promises  of  " assistance" ;  and  each  of 
them  told  how  some  precinct  could  be 
"swung  into  line"  by  a  little  work  on  the 
part  of  the  certain  third  person — always 
nameless, — who  would  need  money  for 


14  The  Real  Issue 

cigars  and  livery  hire.  Wharton  put  these 
statesmen  off,  and  they  went  away  doubting 
whether  they  would  support  the  "old  man" 
or  fight  him.  The  congressman's  presence 
in  the  little  town  was  an  event,  and  he  had 
callers  all  day  long  who  seemed  to  need 
help  in  different  ways.  Soldiers  desired 
pensions;  mothers  asked  for  positions  in 
Washington  for  their  sons;  young  women 
called  to  see  about  clerkships;  widows, 
whose  husbands  he  had  known,  came  to 
borrow  money.  He  was  honestly  glad  to 
see  all  these  people  and,  when  he  could,  he 
helped  them ;  he  rarely  made  an  enemy, 
even  though  he  always  was  frank. 

It  was  Saturday  evening,  and  Wharton 
was  just  entering  on  his  second  week  at 
home,  and  he  and  his  friend,  "Ike"  Rus 
sell,  were  sitting  on  the  southern  porch  of 
the  congressman's  home.  Their  wives  and 
daughters  were  in  the  parlor  around  the 
piano,  and  the  two  men  were  at  that  pre 
liminary  stage  of  conversation  in  which 
ideas  are  conveyed  by  grunts  and  monosyl 
lables. 


The  Real  Issue  15 

"What  did  Hughey  of  Smith  City  want 
to-day?"  asked  Russell. 

"About  two  hundred,  more  or  less,"  said 
the  congressman. 

"Hughey's  a  thief;  he'd  spend  about 
$25,  and  the  rest  would  go  into  his  jeans." 

"I  suppose  so,"  Wharton  answered. 
"Say  we  lose  Smith  county?" 

"Well,  you  say,"  said  his  friend.  "Did 
you  see  Higgins,  from  Lee  Valley?  He 
told  me  last  month  that  he  had  five  fellows 
who  could  swing  Lee  county  for  $100  a 
piece." 

' '  Ugh, ' '  grunted  the  congressman.  ' ' That 
makes  $2,300  so  far,  if  I  come  down." 

"Well,  that's  cheaper  than  you  got  off 
before — by  several  hundred." 

Wharton  yawned,  and  the  silence  that 
followed  was  broken  only  by  the  tinkle  of 
the  cow  bells  in  the  valley  below  the  town, 
and  the  splash  of  water  over  the  dam  across 
the  river  that  runs  around  the  village.  Oc 
casionally  the  sound  of  voices  singing  on 
the  water  or  the  notes  of  a  guitar  would 
come  up  on  the  gusts  of  wind.  The  piano 


1 6  The  Real  Issue 

in  the  parlor  was  silent,  and  the  moon  was 
barely  visible  under  the  eastern  corner  of 
the  porch.  The  men  had  smoked  in  silence 
a  few  moments  when  Wharton  said : 

"Ike,  what  is  the  real  issue  in  this  cam 
paign?" 

"I  dunno,  old  man;  sometimes  I  think 
it's  the  tariff;  sometimes  I  think  it's  silver; 
and  then  at  other  times  I  just  give  it  all  up. 
What's  your  idea,  Tom?" 

The  congressman  did  not  reply  at  once; 
he  seemed  to  be  pulling  his  ideas  together 
for  a  longer  speech  than  usual.  He  twisted 
his  gray  moustache  nervously;  he  looked 
askance  at  his  friend,  who  was  apparently 
listening  to  the  music  that  had  just  started 
up  again  in  the  parlor.  Wharton  went  over 
to  the  garden  hose  which  was  turned  upon 
a  shrub,  changed  its  course,  came  back,  re 
lighting  his  cigar,  and  said  : 

"B'Godfrey,  I  don't  know,  Ike,  I  don't 
know.  Do  you  remember  when  we  used 
to  cut  corn  at  six  cents  a  shock,  and  go  to 
school  down  the  valley  where  those  cow  bells 
were  tinkling  a  little  while  ago?  We  used 


The  Real  Issue  17 

to  sit  on  the  fence  of  nights  like  this  and 
talk  'way  into  the  night  about  what  we  were 
going  to  do." 

"Yes?"   said  the  politician,  expectantly. 

"Yes,  and  I  used  to  hope  to  go  to  con 
gress  some  day;  we  used  to  talk  of  the  old- 
time  statesmen  and  read  their  speeches  in 
the  school  readers, — Clay  and  Calhoun  and 
the  great  men  whose  names  we  knew  as 
boys.  They  were  tall,  thin,  spare  men  in 
swallow-tailed  coats  and  chokers,  and  hair 
that  looked  fierce  and  statesmanlike.  Do 
you  remember  the  congressman  from  this 
district  forty  years  ago ;  how  dignified  he 
was,  what  a  really  great  man  he  must  have 
been?  He  lived  greatness  every  hour  of  his 
life.  The  men  who  went  to  the  territorial 
legislature, — how  superior  they  seemed, 
with  their  tall  hats  and  close  buttoned 
coats!  Ike,  do  you  remember  when  I  went 
to  the  legislature  in  the  winter  of  '70,  and 
came  back  discouraged  and  disappointed 
with  the  sham  of  it  all  —  the  row  and  the 
rings  and  the  schemes?  " 

Russell  would  have  interjected  some  re- 


1 8  The  Real  Issue 

miniscent  joke  on  the  young  statesman,  but 
Wharton  went  on  as  if  to  keep  the  thread 
of  the  conversation  in  his  teeth. 

"Yes,  yes,  Ike,  I  know  about  my  plug 
hat  and  all  that ;  and  then  do  you  remem 
ber  how  I  ran  for  judge  and  was  nominated 
for  congress  back  in  '84  as  a  dark  horse  on 
the  three  hundreth  ballot,  and  how  I  was 
elected  and  told  the  people  from  the  box 
down  by  the  bonfire  in  the  public  square 
that  I  was  going  to  be  worthy  of  the  honor? 
Ike,  the  tears  I  shed  there  were  honest 
tears,  for  God  knows  how  proud  I  was.  All 
these  ten  years  were  before  me,  and  what  a 
great  ten  years  I  hoped  they  would  be.  I 
thought  of  my  plans  as  a  boy — you  and  me 
on  the  fence  down  in  the  valley,  Ike — and  I 
looked  over  all  the  names  in  congress  then 
— ten  years  ago  I  mean — and  they  seemed 
great  names  to  me.  I  could  hardly  wait 
to  get  to  Washington  to  see  the  men  and  to 
be  one  of  them.  I  was  such  a  boy,  Ike — 
ten  years  ago." 

Each  man  puffed  his  cigar  in  a  moment's 
pause.  Wharton  lighted  a  fresh  one.  Rus- 


The  Real  Issue  19 

sell  thought  in  so  many  words:  "It's  one  of 
Tom's  talkative  nights." 

Wharton  took  up  the  thread  where  it  had 
dropped. 

"Here  I  am,  Ike,  a  flesh-and-blood  states 
man.  I've  been  in  it  and  through  it.  I've 
held  as  high  a  place  in  the  organization  of 
the  House  as  any  of  the  great  men  we  used 
to  read  about.  I've  passed  a  pension  bill  — 
and  the  old  soldiers,  for  whom  I  worked 
night  and  day  during  six  months,  have 
passed  resolutions  against  me.  I  have  had 
my  name  on  a  silver  bill  for  which  the  fiat 
money  fellows  have  abused  me.  I've  led 
my  party  through  two  successful  fights. 
And  what  is  there  in  it?  You  know,  as  well 
as  I  do,  that  it  is  hollow, — all  a  hollow 
show.  What's  the  use  of  it?  Why  should 
a  man  wear  his  life  out  up  there  in  that  city 
just  to  keep  his  name  in  print?  There  was 
a  man  named  Keifer — an  Ohio  man — who 
was  speaker  of  the  house  once.  Who  that 
reads  the  papers  knows  anything  of  him  to 
day?  Yet  he  worked  his  life  nearly  out  to 
be  a  statesman.  Where  are  the  seconds  in 


ao  The  Real  Issue 

the  Blaine-Conkling  fight?  Ike,  there's  noth 
ing  in  it.  I  know,  Ike,  there's  nothing  in 
it  but  ashes." 

The  politician  said  nothing;  he  did  not 
know  how  the  talk  was  turning. 

"Ike,"  resumed  the  congressman,  taking 
a  firmer  hold  on  his  cigar,  and  tightly  grasp 
ing  the  arms  of  the  chair,  "Ike,  what's  the 
use?  Here  comes  a  lot  of  Bills  and  Dicks 
and  Toms  and  Harrys,  who  want  me  to  put 
up  $2,300  and  promises  that  I'll  be  two 
years  working  to  keep,  just  to  go  back 
there.  I  go  back  there  and  work  and  fret 
and  stew  for  this,  that  and  the  other  thing 
that  I  don't  care  a  cent  for.  I  have  no 
heart  in  it;  I  feel  like  a  sneak;  I  have  to 
swallow  my  pride;  I've  no  ideals;  there  is 
no  reward ;  nothing  but  higgling  with  a  lot 
of  mercenary,  impecunious  thieves  here  at 
home,  and  log-rolling  with  a  lot  of  shrewder 
shysters  of  the  same  sort  in  congress  at 
Washington.  If  I  go  on,  I  must  buy  my 
way  in ;  buy  my  own  slavery,  Ike,  slavery  to 
the  fellows  I  despise.  I  know  I've  done  it 
three  or  four  times,  but  I  kept  thinking  the 


The  Real  Issue  21 

end  would  some  day  justify  the  means. 
But  it  doesn't;  it  never  will;  it's  a  fraud, 
Ike,  and  I'm  done.  I  am  going  to  be  hon 
est  just  for  once  in  my  life.  I  don't  have 
to  go  to  congress;  I  can  be  lots  happier 
here — here  with  friends  and  my  family  and 
— now  don't  laugh  old  man — and — and — 
rny  honor.  That's  a  little  stagey,  Ike,  but 
that's  the  real  issue  in  this  campaign  and 
I'm  out  of  this  fight.  Let's  go  in  and  hear 
the  music,  Ike.  That's  the  end  of  it,  I've 
thought  it  all  over  and  I've  decided." 

Probably  most  men — at  least  most  moral 
izing  men — would  have  called  the  "old 
man"  weak  had  they  seen  him  the  following 
Monday  making  out  a  check  payable  to 
Isaac  Russell  for  $2,300.  But  most  men 
do  not  know  what  it  is  to  worship  an  idol 
for  a  lifetime,  and  they  cannot  understand 
how  a  man  can  love  his  idol  even  when  he 
knows  to  his  bitter  sorrow  that  it  is  only 
clay. 


The  Story  of  Aqua  Pura 

PEOPLE  who  write  about  Kansas,  as  a 
rule,  write  ignorantly,  and  speak  of  the 
state  as  a  finished  product.  Kansas,  like 
Gaul  of  old,  is  divided  into  three  parts, 
differing  as  widely,  each  from  the  other,  as 
any  three  countries  in  the  same  latitude 
upon  the  globe.  It  would  be  as  untrue  to 
classify  together  the  Egyptian,  the  Indian 
and  the  Central  American,  as  to  speak  of 
the  Kansas  man  without  distinguishing  be 
tween  the  Eastern  Kansan,  the  Central  Kan- 
san,  and  the  Western  Kansan.  Eastern 
Kansas  is  a  finished  community  like  New 
York  or  Pennsylvania.  Central  Kansas  is 
finished,  but  not  quite  paid  for;  and  West 
ern  Kansas,  the  only  place  where  there  is 
any  suffering  from  drouth  or  crop  failures, 
is  a  new  country — old  only  in  a  pluck  which 
is  slowly  conquering  the  desert. 


The  Story  of  Aqua  Pura  23 

Aqua  Pura  was  a  western  Kansas  town, 
set  high  up,  far  out  on  the  prairie.  It  was 
founded  nine  years  ago,  at  the  beginning  of 
the  boom,  not  by  cow-boys  and  ruffians, 
but  by  honest,  ambitious  men  and  women. 
Of  the  six  men  who  staked  out  the  town 
site,  two  —  Johnson  and  Barringer  —  were 
Harvard  men ;  one,  Nickols,  was  from 
Princeton ;  and  the  other  three,  Bemis, 
Bradley  and  Hicks,  had  come  from  inland 
state  universities.  When  their  wives  came 
west  there  was  a  Vassar  reunion,  and  the 
first  mail  that  arrived  after  the  postoffice 
had  been  established  brought  the  New 
York  magazines.  The  town  was  like  doz 
ens  of  others  that  sprang  up  far  out  in  the 
treacherous  wilderness  in  that  fresh,  green 
spring  of  1886. 

They  called  it  Aqua  Pura,  choosing  a 
Latin  name  to  proclaim  to  the  world  that  it 
was  not  a  rowdy  town.  The  new  yellow 
pine  of  the  little  village  gleamed  in  the  clear 
sunlight.  It  could  be  seen  for  miles  on  a 
clear,  warm  day,  as  it  stood  upon  a  rise 
of  ground;  and  over  in  Maize,  six  miles 


24  The  Real  Issue 

away,  the  electric  lights  of  Aqua  Pura, 
which  flashed  out  in  the  evening  before 
the  town  was  six  months  old,  could  be 
seen  distinctly.  A  school  house  that  cost 
twenty  thousand  dollars  was  built  before 
the  town  had  seen  its  first  winter;  and 
the  first  Christmas  ball  in  Aqua  Pura  was 
held  in  an  opera  house  that  cost  ten  thou 
sand.  Money  was  plentiful;  two  and  three 
story  buildings  rose  on  each  side  of  the 
main  street  of  the  little  place.  The  far 
mers  who  had  taken  homesteads  in  the 
country  around  the  town  had  prospered. 
The  sod  had  yielded  handsomely  from  the 
first  breaking.  Those  who  had  come  too 
late  to  put  in  crops  found  it  easy  to  borrow 
money.  There  was  an  epidemic  of  hope  in 
the  air.  Everyone  breathed  the  contagion. 
The  public  library  association  raised  a  thou 
sand  dollars  for  books  during  the  winter, 
and  in  the  spring  a  syndicate  was  formed  to 
erect  a  library  building.  Aqua  Pura  could 
not  afford  to  be  behind  other  towns,  and 
the  railroad  train  that  passed  the  place 
threw  off  packages  of  the  newest  books  as 


The  Story  of  Aqua  Pura  25 

fast  as  mails  could  come  from  New  York. 
The  sheet-iron  tower  of  the  Aqua  Pura 
waterworks  rose  early  in  the  spring  of  '87, 
and  far  out  in  the  high  grass  the  hydrants 
were  scattered.  Living  water  came  bounti 
fully  from  the  wells  that  were  sunk  from 
fifty  to  one  hundred  feet  in  the  ground. 

Barringer  was  elected  mayor  at  the 
'municipal  election  in  the  spring  of  '87,  and 
he  platted  out  Barringer's  Addition,  and 
built  a  house  there  with  borrowed  money  in 
June.  There  were  two  thousand  people  in 
Aqua  Pura  then.  Hacks  rolled  prosper 
ously  over  the  smooth,  hard,  prairie  streets; 
two  banks  opened;  and  the  newspaper, 
which  was  printed  the  day  the  town  was 
laid  off,  became  a  daily.  Society  grew  gay, 
and  people  from  all  corners  of  the  globe  met 
in  the  booming  village. 

There  was  no  lawless  element.  There  was 
not  a  saloon  in  the  town.  A  billiard  hall, 
and  a  dark  room,  wherein  cards  might  be 
played  surreptitiously,  were  the  only  insti 
tutions  which  made  the  people  of  Aqua 
Pura  blush,  when  they  took  the  innumerable 


26  The  Real  Issue 

"eastern  capitalists"  over  the  town  who 
visited  Western  Kansas  that  year.  These 
"capitalists"  were  entertained  at  a  three- 
story  brick  hotel,  equipped  with  electricity 
and  modern  plumbing  in  order  to  excel 
Maize,  where  the  hotel  was  an  indifferent 
frame  affair.  There  were  throngs  of  well- 
dressed  people  on  the  streets,  and  sleek  fat 
horses  were  hitched  in  front  of  the  stores 
wherein  the  farmers  traded. 

This  is  the  story  of  the  rise.  Barringer 
has  told  it  a  thousand  times.  Barringer 
believed  in  the  town  to  the  last.  When 
the  terrible  drouth  of  1887,  with  its  furnace- 
like  breath  singed  the  town  and  the  farms  in 
Fountain  county,  Barringer  lead  the  major 
ity  which  proudly  claimed  that  the  country 
was  all  right ;  and  as  chairman  of  the  board 
of  county  commissioners,  he  sent  a  scath 
ing  message  to  the  Governor,  refusing  aid. 
Barringer's  own  bank  loaned  money  on 
land,  whereon  the  crop  had  failed,  to  tide 
the  farmers  over  the  winter.  Barringer's 
signature  guaranteed  loans  from  the  east 
upon  everything  negotiable,  and  Aqua  Pura 


The  Story  of  Aqua  Pura  27 

thrived  for  a  time  upon  promises.  Here 
and  there,  in  the  spring  of  1888,  there 
was  an  empty  building.  One  room  of  the 
opera  house  block  was  vacant.  Barringer 
started  a  man  in  business,  selling  notions, 
who  occupied  the  room.  Barringer  went 
east  and  pleaded  with  the  men  who  had 
invested  in  the  town  to  be  easy  on  their 
debtors.  Then  came  the  hot  winds  of 
July,  blowing  out  of  the  southwest,  scorch 
ing  the  grass,  shrivelling  the  grain,  and  dry 
ing  up  the  streams  that  had  filled  in  the 
spring.  During  the  fall  of  that  year  the 
hotel,  which  had  been  open  only  in  the 
lower  story,  closed.  The  opera  house  began 
to  be  used  for  "aid"  meetings,  and  when 
the  winter  wind  blew  dust-blackened  snow 
through  the  desolate  streets  of  the  little 
town,  it  rattled  a  hundred  windows  in  vacant 
houses,  and  sometimes  blew  sun-warped 
boards  from  the  high  sidewalk  that  led 
across  the  gully  to  the  big  red  grade  of  the 
unfinished  "Chicago  Air  Line." 

Barringer  did  not  go  east  that  year.      He 
could  not.     But  he  wrote — wrote  regularly 


a8  The  Real  Issue 

and  bravely  to  the  eastern  capitalists  who 
were  concerned  in  his  bank  and  loan  com 
pany;  and  they  grew  colder  and  colder  as 
the  winter  deepened  and  the  interest  on 
defaulted  loans  came  not.  Barringer's  fail 
ure  was  announced  in  the  spring  of  '89. 
Nickols  had  left.  Johnson  had  left.  The 
other  founders  of  Aqua  Pura  had  died  in 
'87-'88,  and  their  families  had  gone,  and 
with  them  went  the  culture  and  the  ambi 
tion  of  the  town.  But  Barringer  held  on 
and  lived,  rent  free,  in  the  two  front  rooms 
of  the  barn  of  a  hotel.  His  daughter, 
Mary,  frail,  tanned,  hollow-eyed,  and  with 
ered  by  the  drouths,  lived  with  him. 

In  1890  the  hot  winds  came  again  in  the 
summer,  and  long  and  steadily  they  blew, 
blighting  everything.  There  were  only  five 
hundred  people  in  Fountain  county  that 
year,  and  they  lived  on  the  taxes  from  the 
railroad  that  crossed  the  county.  Families 
were  put  on  the  poor  list  without  disgrace 
— it  was  almost  a  mark  of  political  distinc 
tion — and  in  the  little  town  many  devices 


The  Story  of  Aqua  Pura  29 

were  in  vogue  to  distribute  the  county  funds 
during  the  winter. 

There  was  no  rain  that  winter  and  the 
snow  was  hard  and  dry.  Cattle  on  the  range 
suffered  for  water  and  died  by  the  thou 
sands.  A  procession  from  the  little  town 
started  eastward  early  in  the  spring.  White- 
canopied  wagons,  and  wagons  covered  with 
oil  table-cloths  of  various  hues,  or  clad  in 
patch-work  quilts,  sought  the  rising  sun. 

Barringer  grew  thin,  unkempt  and  gray. 
Every  evening,  when  the  wind  rattled  in  the 
deserted  rooms  of  the  old  hotel,  and  made 
the  faded  signs  up  and  down  the  dreary 
street  creak,  the  old  man  and  his  daughter 
went  over  their  books,  balancing,  accounting 
interest,  figuring  on  mythical  problems  that 
the  world  had  long  since  forgotten. 

Christmas  eve,  1891,  the  entire  village, 
fifteen  souls  in  all,  assembled  at  Barringer's 
house.  He  was  hopeful,  even  cheerful,  and 
talked  blithely  of  what  "one  good  crop" 
would  do  for  the  country;  although  there 
were  no  farmers  left  to  plant  it,  even  if  na- 


30  The  Real  Issue 

ture  had  beeen  harboring  a  smile  for  the 
dreary  land.  The  year  that  followed  that 
Christmas  promised  much.  There  were 
spring  rains,  and  in  May,  the  brown  grass 
and  the  scattered  patches  of  wheat  grew 
green  and  fair  to  see.  Barringer  freshened 
up  perceptibly.  He  sent  an  account  of  his 
indebtedness — on  home-ruled  manilla  paper 
— to  his  creditors  in  the  east,  and  faithfully 
assured  them  that  he  would  remit  all  he 
owed  in  the  fall.  A  few  wanderers  strag 
gled  into  Fountain  county,  lured  by  the 
green  fields  and  running  brooks.  The 
gray  prairie  wolf  gave  up  the  dug-out  to 
human  occupants.  Lights  in  the  prairie 
cabins  twinkled  back  hope  to  the  stars. 
Before  June  there  were  a  thousand  people 
in  Fountain  county.  Aqua  Pura's  business- 
houses  seemed  to  liven  up.  There  was  a 
Fourth-of-July  celebration  in  town.  But 
the  rain  that  spoiled  the  advertised  "fire 
works  in  the  evening"  was  the  last  that 
fell  until  winter.  A  car  load  of  aid  from 
Central  Kansas  saved  a  hundred  lives  in 
Fountain  county  that  year. 


The  Story  of  Aqua  Pura  31 

When  the  spring  of  1893  opened,  Barrin- 
ger  looked  ten  years  older  than  he  looked 
the  spring  before.  The  grass  on  the  range 
was  sere,  and  great  cracks  were  in  the  earth. 
The  winter  had  been  dry.  The  spring 
opened  dry,  with  high  winds  blowing  through 
May.  There  were  but  five  people  on  the 
townsite  that  summer,  Barringer,  his  daugh 
ter,  and  the  postmaster's  family.  Supplies 
came  overland  from  Maize.  A  bloody 
county-seat  war  had  given  the  rival  town 
the  prize  in  1890.  Barringer  had  plenty  of 
money  to  buy  food,  for  the  county  commis 
sioners  distributed  the  taxes  which  the  rail 
road  paid. 

It  was  his  habit  to  sit  on  the  front  porch 
of  the  deserted  hotel  and  look  across  the 
prairies  to  the  southwest  and  watch  the 
breaking  clouds  scatter  into  the  blue  of  the 
twilight.  He  could  see  the  empty  water 
tower  silhouetted  against  the  sky.  The 
frame  buildings  that  rose  in  the  boom  days 
had  all  been  moved  away,  the  line  of  the 
horizon  was  guarded  at  regular  intervals  by 
the  iron  hydrants  far  out  on  the  prairie, 


32  The  Real  Issue 

that  stood  like  sentinels  hemming  in  the 
past.  The  dying  wind  seethed  through 
the  short,  brown  grass.  Heat  lightning 
winked  devilishly  in  the  distance,  and 
the  dissolving  clouds  that  gathered  every 
afternoon  laughed  in  derisive  thunder  at 
the  hopes  of  the  worn  old  man  sitting  on 
the  warped  boards  of  the  hotel  porch. 
Night  after  night  he  sat  there,  waiting,  with 
his  daughter  by  his  side.  There  had  been 
a  time  when  he  was  too  proud  to  go  to  the 
east,  where  his  name  was  a  by-word.  Now 
he  was  too  poor  in  purse  and  in  spirit.  So  he 
sat  and  waited,  hoping  fondly  for  the  reali 
zation  of  a  dream  which  he  feared  could 
never  come  true. 

There  were  days  when  the  postmaster's 
four-year-old  child  sat  with  him.  The  old 
man  and  the  child  sat  thus  one  evening 
when  the  old  man  sighed:  "If  it  would  only 
rain,  there  would  be  half  a  crop  yet!  If  it 
would  only  rain!"  The  child  heard  him 
and  sighed  imitatively:  "Yes,  if  it  would 
only  rain — what  is  rain,  Mr.  Barringer?" 
He  looked  at  the  child  blankly  and  sat  for  a 


The  Story  of  Aqua  Pura  33 

long  time  in  silence.  When  he  arose  he 
did  not  even  have  a  pretence  of  hope.  He 
grew  despondent  from  that  hour,  and  a  sort 
of  hypochondria  seized  him.  It  was  his 
fancy  to  exaggerate  the  phenomena  of  the 
drouth. 

That  fall  when  the  winds  piled  the  sand 
in  the  railroad  "cuts"  and  the  prairie  was 
as  hard  and  barren  as  the  ground  around  a 
cabin  door,  Barringer's  daughter  died  of 
fever.  The  old  man  seemed  little  moved 
by  sorrow.  But  as  he  rode  back  from  the 
bleak  grave-yard,  through  the  sand  cloud, 
in  the  carriage  with  the  dry,  rattling  spokes, 
he  could  only  mutter  to  the  sympathizing 
friends  who  had  come  from  Maize  to 
mourn  with  him,  "And  we  laid  her  in  the 
hot  and  dusty  tomb."  He  recalled  an  old 
song  which  fitted  these  words,  and  for  days 
kept  crooning:  "Oh,  we  laid  her  in  the  hot 
and  dusty  tomb." 

That  winter  the  postmaster  left.  The 
office  was  discontinued.  The  county  com 
missioners  tried  to  get  Barringer  to  leave. 
He  would  not  be  persuaded  to  go.  The 


34  The  Real  Issue 

county  commissioners  were  not  insistent. 
It  gave  one  of  them  an  excuse  for  drawing 
four  dollars  a  day  from  the  county  treasury ; 
he  rode  from  Maize  to  Aqua  Pura  every  day 
with  supplies  for  Barringer. 

The  old  man  cooked,  ate,  and  slept  in  the 
office  of  the  hotel.  Day  after  day  he  put 
on  his  overcoat  in  the  winter  and  made  the 
rounds  of  the  vacant  store  buildings.  He 
walked  up  and  down  in  the  little  paths 
through  the  brown  weeds  in  the  deserted 
streets,  all  day  long,  talking  to  himself. 
At  night,  when  the  prairie  wind  rattled 
through  the  empty  building,  blowing  snow 
and  sand  down  the  halls,  and  in  little  drifts 
upon  the  broken  stairs,  the  old  man's  lamp 
was  seen  by  straggling  travellers  burning  far 
into  the  night.  He  told  his  daily  visitor 
that  he  was  keeping  his  books. 

Thus  the  winter  passed.  The  grass  came 
with  the  light  mists  of  March.  By  May 
it  had  lost  its  color.  By  June  it  was  brown, 
and  the  hot  winds  came  again  in  August, 
curving  the  warped  boards  a  little  deeper 
on  the  floor  of  the  hotel  porch.  Herders 


The  Story  of  Aqua  Pura  35 

and  travellers,  straggling  back  to  the  green 
country,  saw  him  sitting  there  at  twilight, 
looking  toward  the  southwest, — a  grizzled, 
unkempt  old  man,  with  a  shifting  light  in 
his  eye.  To  such  as  spoke  to  him  he  always 
made  the  same  speech:  "Yes,  it  looks  like 
rain,  but  it  can't  rain.  The  rain  has  gone 
dry  out  here.  They  say  it  rained  at 
Hutchinson, — maybe  so,  I  doubt  it.  There 
is  no  God  west  of  Newton.  He  dried  up  in 
'90.  They  talk  irrigation.  That's  an  old 
story  in  hell.  Where's  Johnson?  Not  here! 
Where's  Nickels?  Not  here!  Bemis?  Not 
here!  Bradley?  Not  here!  Hicks?  Not 
here!  Where's  handsome  Dick  Barringer, 
Hon.  Richard  Barringer?  Here!  Here  he  is, 
holding  down  a  hot  brick  in  a  cooling  room  of 
hell!  Yes,  it  does  look  like  rain,  doesn't 
it?" 

Then  he  would  go  over  it  all  again,  and 
finally  cross  the  trembling  threshold  of  the 
hotel,  slamming  the  crooked,  sun-steamed 
door  behind  him.  There  he  stayed,  sum 
mer  and  winter,  looking  out  across  the 
burned  horizon,  peering  at  the  long,  low, 


36  The  Real  Issue 

black  line  of  clouds  in  the  southwest,  long 
ing  for  the  never-coming  rain. 

Cattle  roamed  the  streets  in  the  early 
spring,  but  the  stumbling  of  the  animals 
upon  the  broken  walks,  did  not  disturb  him, 
and  the  winds  and  the  drouth  soon  drove 
them  away.  The  messenger  with  provisions 
came  every  morning.  The  summer,  with 
its  awful  heat,  began  to  glow.  The  light 
ning  and  the  thunder  joked  insolently  in 
the  distance  at  noon ;  and  the  stars  in  the 
deep,  dry  blue  looked  down  and  mocked 
the  old  man's  prayers  as  he  sat,  at  night, 
on  his  rickety  sentry  box.  He  tottered 
through  the  deserted  stores  calling  his  roll. 
Night  after  night  he  walked  to  the  red  clay 
grade  of  the  uncompleted  "Air  Line"  and 
looked  over  the  dead  level  stretches  of 
prairie.  He  would  have  gone  away,  but 
something  held  him  to  the  town.  Here 
he  had  risked  all.  Here,  perhaps,  in  his 
warped  fancy,  he  hoped  to  regain  all.  He 
had  written  so  often,  "  Times  will  be 
better  in  the  spring,"  that  it  was  part  of  his 
confession  of  faith — that  and  "One  good 


The  Story  of  Aqua  Pura  37 

crop  will  bring  the  country  around  all 
right."  This  was  written  with  red  clay  in 
the  old  man's  nervous  hand  on  the  side  of 
the  hotel,  on  the  faded  signs,  on  the  de 
serted  inner  walls  of  the  stores, — in  fact, 
everywhere  in  Aqua  Pura. 

The  wind  told  on  him;  it  withered  him, 
sapped  his  energy,  and  hobbled  his  feet. 

One  morning  he  awoke  and  a  strange 
sound  greeted  his  ears.  There  was  a  gen 
tle  tapping  in  the  building  and  a  roar  that 
was  not  the  guffaw  of  the  wind.  He  rushed 
for  the  door.  He  saw  the  rain,  and  bare 
headed  he  ran  to  the  middle  of  the  streets 
where  it  was  pouring  down.  The  messen 
ger  from  Maize  with  the  day's  supplies 
found  him  standing  there,  vacantly,  almost 
thoughtfully,  looking  up,  the  rain  dripping 
from  his  grizzled  head,  and  rivulets  of  water 
trickling  about  his  shoes. 

"Hello,  Uncle  Dick,"  said  the  messenger. 
"Enjoying  the  prospect?  River's  risin' ; 
better  come  back  with  me." 

But  the  old  man  only  answered,  "John 
son?  Not  here!  Nickols?  Not  here! 


3  8  The  Real  Issue 

Bemis?  Not  here!  Bradley?  Not  here! 
Hicks?  Not  here!  And  Barringer?  Here! 
And  now  God's  moved  the  rain  belt  west. 
Moved  it  so  far  west  that  there's  hope  for 
Lazarus  to  get  irrigation  from  Abraham." 

And  with  this  the  old  man  went  into  the 
house.  There,  when  the  five  days'  rain 
had  ceased,  and  when  the  great  river  that 
flooded  the  barren  plain  had  shrunk,  the 
rescuing  party,  coming  from  Maize,  found 
him.  Beside  his  bed  were  his  balanced 
books  and  his  legal  papers.  In  his  dead 
eyes  were  a  thousand  dreams. 


The  Prodigal   Daughter 

Folks  like  to  pamper  the  prodigal  son 
— Maybe  no  more  than  they'd  orter — 
But  no  one  as  yet  has  been  able  to  get 
Any  veal  for  his  prodigal  daughter. 

From  the  Rhymed  Reflections  of  Elder  Twiggs. 

A  FEW  years  ago  the  Beasly  girl 
worked  in  the  over-all  factory.  She 
was  a  pretty  girl  then,  and  naturally  the 
neighbors  talked  about  her,  for  the  peo 
ple  who  live  along  Jersey  Creek  are  really 
no  better  than  they  who  live  on  Inde 
pendence  Avenue,  in  spite  of  the  theories 
that  poverty  and  charity  go  together.  So 
when  she  left  the  factory  the  women  of  the 
Jersey  Creek  neighborhood  hinted  that  the 
foreman  had  been  too  polite  to  her.  But  if 
she  had  remained  at  the  factory  they  would 
have  given  the  same  reason  for  her  staying. 
After  that,  she  went  to  the  theatre  with 
young  men  who  turned  up  their  coat  collars 
39 


40  The  Real  Issue 

and  wore  their  hands  in  their  pockets  in  the 
fall  and  spring,  in  lieu  of  overcoats.  During 
the  summer  following  her  discharge  from  the 
over-all  factory  she  became  a  park  fiend. 

When  she  gave  up  her  counter  in  the 
cheap  dry-goods  store,  she  remained  at 
home,  apparently  keeping  house  for  her 
father.  He  worked  in  "the  shops"  some 
where  over  in  "the  bottoms,"  and  came 
home  tired  and  grimy  at  night,  and  went  to 
bed  early.  He  slept  in  the  room  off  the 
kitchen,  and  his  daughter  slept  in  the  front 
room.  He  did  not  know  when  she  came  in 
at  night,  and  he  did  not  think  of  caring  to 
know.  Her  father  paid  no  attention  to  the 
little  brother  and  sister  who  teased  the 
daughter  at  table  about  the  young  men  who 
frequented  the  house.  If  the  other  mem 
bers  of  the  family  had  been  plaguing  the 
ten-year  old  girl  who  led  in  the  raillery,  the 
father  would  have  been  equally  heedless  of 
their  chatter.  The  eldest  daughter  made 
him  very  happy  by  simple  tendernesses, 
though,  of  course,  he  did  not  understand 
that  his  warmth  for  her  and  the  longing 


The  Prodigal  Daughter  41 

which  he  felt  all  day  to  get  home  for  sup 
per,  was  happiness. 

But,  unconsciously,  his  daughter  grew  very 
necessary  to  him.  He  was  not  of  the  world 
that  analyzes  its  emotions,  yet  he  could  not 
fail  to  see  her  beauty,  nor  to  be  proud  of  her 
for  it;  and  when  she  was  dressed  to  go 
out — and  she  went  out  early  and  often — his 
pride  blinded  him  to  the  gaudiness  of  her 
clothes,  her  frowsy  hair,  and  the  shocking 
make-up  on  her  pretty  face.  Probably  his 
discernment  was  not  keen  enough  to  see 
these  faults,  even  had  he  not  been  so  fond 
of  her.  But  other  fathers  who  had  daugh 
ters  saw  these  things,  and  mothers  of  the 
neighborhood  who  had  sons  did  not  mention 
the  Beasly  girl  in  the  family  circle.  It  was 
only  after  Miss  Beasly  had  joined  a  Comedy 
Company,  organized  to  play  the  "White 
Slave"  and  "Only  a  Farmer's  Daughter" 
through  the  West,  that  her  name  was  men 
tioned  at  all  freely  by  Jersey  Creek's  aristoc 
racy,  and  then  it  was  as  if  she  were  dead. 
And  Mrs.  Hinkley,  who  took  care  of  the 
children  and  looked  after  the  lonely  old 


42  The  Real  Issue 

man,  often  said  to  inquiring  women  of  the 
neighborhood,  "It  would  break  your  heart 
to  see  Mr.  Beasly  a-grievin'  an'  a-grievin' 
for  that  hussy;  an'  whiniver  he  gets  a  letter 
from  her  he  reads  it  at  the  supper  table  be 
fore  them  children  wid  that  flourish  you  'd 
think  — tch,  tch,  tch,  I  do  wonder  if  he 
knows."  And  after  some  discussion  she 
would  sigh,  "Well,  it's  not  for  me  to  tell 
him." 

What  a  wonderful  thing  is  absence.  It  is 
like  the  dark  in  its  power  to  transform  peo 
ple  and  situations  and  the  relations  of  things. 
Though  she  had  grown  up  under  his  eyes, 
the  old  man  and  his  daughter  had  scarcely 
spoken  a  serious  word  to  each  other.  The 
father  had  never  inquired  what  his  daughter 
was  or  was  not.  She  was  only  "her"  in  his 
thoughts.  They  were  strangers,  but  when 
he  began  to  forget  her  presence,  he  found 
himself  continually  thinking  of  things  he 
would  like  to  say  to  her.  "Her"  disap 
peared,  and  dreams  altogether  different  from 
his  former  conception  of  her,  took  her  place. 
He  longed  for  her,  and  yearned  to  tell  her 


The  Prodigal  Daughter  43 

the  great  love  in  his  heart.  Among  the  noisy 
wheels,  he  mumbled  to  himself,  speeches 
that  he  wanted  to  make  to  her,  and  in  the 
scrawled  letter  he  sent  her  occasionally,  he 
wrote  some  of  these  tender  things. 

One  day  she  wrote  that  she  was  coming 
home  for  a  vacation,  and  his  heart  was  very 
glad.  He  read  and  re-read  the  letter,  and 
droned  it  off  at  the  supper  table  to  Mrs. 
Hinkley  and  the  children.  As  he  read  it, 
neither  the  hearers  nor  the  reader  realized 
how  much  feeling  the  writer  had  put  into 
the  matter-of-fact  words,"  I  want  to  be  home 
with  you  all  again."  These  words  were 
meant  to  tell  a  story  of  heart-ache  and  lone 
liness  and  despair,  but  they  were  common 
place  and  fell  short.  For  poor  people  are  as 
blunt  in  sensibility  as  the  comfortably  rich, 
and  the  suggestion  to  Mrs.  Hinkley  of  the 
possibility  of  any  human  feeling  in  the 
Beasly  girl's  heart  would  have  fallen  on  bar 
ren  soil. 

When  the  day  for  the  girl's  coming  ar 
rived,  Mrs.  Hinkley  was  gone  from  the 
Beasly  home,  but  the  old  man  had  "laid  off" 


44  The  Real  Issue 

a  day  from  his  work.  He  was  joyful  in  the 
hope  that  he  might  say  some  of  the  tender 
things  he  had  written,  and  then  keep  up  the 
new  happiness  that  had  come  to  him,  yet 
he  feared  that  his  daughter  would  be  so  far 
above  him  that  she  would  not  care  for  it. 
He  put  on  his  best  suit  of  clothes,  and  sent 
the  children  away.  The  house  was  in  con 
spicuous  "company  order;"  he  arranged 
things,  himself,  and  a  Sunday  stiffness  and 
quiet  prevailed.  He  sat  in  the  front  room 
waiting  for  her.  When  he  heard  voices  at 
the  fence,  he  recognized  that  of  his  daughter, 
and  his  pulse  quickened;  but  when  he 
looked  through  the  curtain  and  saw  a  stran 
ger  with  her,  his  heart  sank. 

Father  and  daughter  met  at  the  door;  he 
held  out  his  hand  to  her  and  she  passed  in, 
followed  by  the  stranger,  while  the  father 
said  awkwardly,  ''Well,  Allie," — and  after  a 
pause,  "how  are  you?" 

A  smile  enclosed  the  commonplace 
answer,  and  the  old  man  continued  in  a  high- 
keyed  tone  with  the  upward  inflection,  look 
ing  vacantly  at  the  dapper  stranger  who  had 


The  Prodigal  Daughter  45 

not  been  introduced,  "I  s  'pose  you  've 
been  gettin'  to  be  such  a  grand  lady — "  He 
laughed  nervously,  and  with  conscious  em 
barrassment.  The  daughter  seated  her 
guest,  and  the  father,  with  a  feint  at  cheer, 
chirped,  "Well,  you  're  lookin'  hale  and 
hearty. ' ' 

"Is  there  anything  in  the  cupboard,  Pa?" 
asked  the  girl,  as  she  took  off  her  soiled 
gloves  and  threw  her  long,  shabby  cloak  and 
her  expensive,  but  betowsled  hat  upon  the 
bed.  "I  am  just  dyin'  for  a  bite;  we  didn't 
get  any  breakfast."  The  old  man  went  to 
get  something,  and  when  he  returned  the 
stranger  was  gone.  She  did  not  taste  what 
he  had  brought,  but  turned  and  threw  her 
arms  about  his  neck;  there  were  tears  in  her 
eyes  as  she  said,  "Oh,  Pa — Pa — ain't  it 
good  to  be  back  again!" 

The  father,  summoning  all  his  courage  to 
break  away  from  the  common  words  of  wel 
come  began  again  in  a  quavering,  nervous 
voice,  "Well,  Allie — I  guess  'at  mebbe  you 
— you  think  someway  that  yer  daddy  has 
forgot  you,  but  —  Allie,  I  tell  you,  I — well, 


46  The  Real  Issue 

do  you  know,  I  think  a  whole  lot  of  you, 
Allie."  It  was  the  best  he  could  do,  but 
he  kissed  her,  and  that  was  something — it 
was  a  great  deal  for  both  of  them.  Then 
they  relaxed,  and  talked  of  the  children, 
about  whom  she  asked  a  great  deal,  and 
of  the  neighbors,  about  whom  she  asked 
nothing. 

The  "Comedy  Company"  had  failed,  and 
she  was  at  home  to  stay.  Her  absence  had 
made  both  father  and  daughter  understand 
how  much  each  was  to  the  other.  The  little 
signs  of  endearment  did  not  vanish  as  the 
days  wore  on.  She  smoothed  his  hair  when 
she  passed  him,  and  he  caught  at  her  dress 
and  touched  her  simply  with  his  hand  as  she 
came  near  him  at  her  work.  So  much  was 
his  heart  wrapped  up  in  her  that  he  did  not 
notice  the  absence  of  the  neighbors  from  the 
house,  and  when  he  asked  them  to  come,  and 
laughingly  upbraided  them  for  their  social 
carelessness,  he  accepted  their  explanations 
with  no  thought  of  their  insincerity. 

His  pride  in  her  knew  no  conventionality 
and  no  propriety.  Once,  when  the  boys  in 


The  Prodigal  Daughter  47 

the  shop  were  eating  their  noonday  lunch  in 
the  shade  of  the  building,  he  looked  up  from 
a  piece  of  pie  to  say  in  a  lull  of  the  conversa 
tion,  "You  fellers  may  talk  all  you  want  to 
about  your  purty  girls,  but  I  bet  I  've  got 
one  at  home  'at  '1  beat  all  yours  put  to 
gether.  Some  o'  you  young  fellers  orto 
come  out  an'  see  her."  And  when  the  fel 
lows  winked  at  one  another  and  set  up  a 
laugh,  the  old  man  laughed,  too,  and  said, 
"That's  what  I  said;  and  I  didn't  smile 
when  I  said  it ;  she  's  the  purtiest  girl  you 
ever  saw — ef  her  dad  does  say  so." 

He  told  her  that  night  how  they  had 
laughed,  and  how  he  had  "stuck  to  his 
words  and  made  them  shut  up, ' '  but  she  was 
bending  over  the  stove  in  the  dark  corner, 
and  he  could  not  see  the  flash  in  her  eyes, 
and  the  quick  quiver  of  hate  that  curled  the 
muscles  of  her  upper  lip.  The  old  man  and 
the  children  prattled  on  until  she  composed 
herself,  and  joined  the  family  group. 

That  night  she  tossed  in  her  bed  and 
turned  her  feverish  pillow  a  hundred  tines. 
She  cursed  the  world,  its  people,  and  its 


48  The  Real  Issue 

social  arrangement.  She  wanted  to  make 
people  suffer.  Her  father's  disgrace,  and 
the  thought  that  she  could  not  defend  him 
made  her  frantic.  When  it  was  nearly  morn 
ing  she  cried  herself  to  sleep,  brooding  over 
her  own  personal  sorrow.  She  was  awak 
ened  by  her  father  scraping  the  ashes  from 
the  kitchen  stove,  and  her  heart  rose  to  her 
throat  with  great  love  for  him.  During  that 
entire  day  the  girl  held  her  father  in  her 
mind  as  she  went  about  her  household  du 
ties.  It  seemed  to  her  that  her  life  with  him 
was  really  worth  living,  and  she  was  glad 
that  since  her  return,  she  had  sent  her  old 
companions  away.  Yet  her  hand  was  raised 
against  the  world — her  narrow  world  that  is 
the  epitome  of  the  great  narrow  world — be 
cause  it  persecuted  her  and  pointed  its  finger 
at  the  one  being  she  loved.  But  the  very 
fact  that  her  father  was  set  apart  from  his 
fellows  because  of  her,  drew  him  close  to  her. 
And  the  night  thoughts  followed  her  all 
through  the  day,  till  she  longed  for  his  return. 
It  was  a  good  day  in  her  life. 

She   heard   his  footsteps  on  the  walk  in 


The  Prodigal  Daughter  49 

front,  and  heard  him  coming  around  the 
house  to  the  kitchen  door.  When  he 
crossed  the  threshold  she  kissed  him.  The 
old  man  was  a  little  abashed  at  the  sudden 
ness  of  it,  but  he  was  pleased.  He  took  a 
chair  and  sat  in  the  back  yard  leaning 
against  the  house.  From  there  he  talked 
with  her  through  the  open  door.  They  had 
passed  the  usual  questions  of  the  day,  when 
the  old  man  said,  "  Allie,  y'  can't  guess  what 
Mrs.  Hinkley  said  about  you,  this  evening." 
The  daughter  blanched  as  she  stood  in  the 
doorway,  and  said  nothing.  It  was  dusk,  and 
the  old  man  did  not  notice  her.  "She  said, 
sez  she,  '  Mr.  Beasly,  do  you  know  that  you 
are  doin'  wrong  to  keep  that  Allie  in  the 
house  there?'  I  says, 'Why  so,  Mrs.  Hink 
ley?'  and  she  would  n't  say  nothin'  but 
'Well,  y'  are,  that  's  all.'  I  s'pose  Mrs. 
Hinkley  thinks  that  'cause  you  're  grown  to 
be  so  purty  an' — an'  all  that  —  you  're 
ashamed  to  stay  down  here  in  Jersey  with 
your  old  daddy."  Strange  things  vere 
crowding  into  the  girl's  mind  —  a  fearful  im 
pulse  to  unburden  her  soul  struggled  for 


50  The  Real  Issue 

mastery  in  her  heart.  Then  the  temptation 
came  with  her  father's  question,  "But  you 
ain't  ashamed  to  stay  with  your  poor,  hon 
est  ol*  pap,  are  y',  Allie?" 

There  was  a  short  silence.  As  it  length 
ened  into  a  distinct  pause  the  man's  heart 
was  shot  with  fear.  He  felt  remorse  wrap 
him  about  —  remorse  and  humiliation.  He 
sprang  lamely  from  the  leaning  chair  to  his 
feet  and  staggered  to  the  door,  crying  pite- 
ously  with  woe  in  his  voice,  "Oh,  Allie, 
Allie  —  my  —  my  little  girl,  Allie!  We'll 
move,  Allie;  we  '11  move." 

He  came  to  her  and  stood  helplessly  be 
fore  her.  He  could  not  know  why  she  was 
dumb.  He  misunderstood  and  was  turning 
away  in  a  slow  agony  of  shame,  when  her 
love  for  him  swept  her  as  upon  a  wave  into 
his  arms,  sobbing. 

She  recovered  quickly,  and  hastened  to  a 
sputtering  pan  which  she  pretended  needed 
her  attention.  The  old  man  touched  her 
dress  in  his  wonted  way,  as  he  passed  her 
going  toward  the  door.  He  hesitated,  and 
seemed  to  have  another  protest  upon  his 


The  Prodigal  Daughter  51 

lips.  The  daughter  felt  that  she  could  not 
keep  her  sorrow  back  if  he  spoke.  The  old 
man  did  not  note  the  pathetic  tremble  in 
her  voice  as  she  cried  to  her  little  sister, 
playing  at  the  door: 

''Jen-nee,  Jennie,  o-o-h  Jennie,  you  go 
cut  me  a  switch ;  I  got  to  tend  to  your  Pa. 
He's  makin'  me  spoil  this  supper."  She 
added  in  a  firmer  voice.  "The  very  idee  of 
our  movin'." 

And  the  old  man,  looking  back  with  a 
smile,  went  into  the  twilight  full  of  joy. 


The  Record  on  the  Blotter 

THE  old  man  Beasly  went  over  the 
whole  matter  to  the  big  wheel  that 
day,  and  the  big  wheel  murmured  a  low, 
monotonous  affirmative  to  everything  he 
said.  She  had  been  a  good  daughter  to 
him,  he  said,  and  the  wheel  assented;  she 
had  been  more  thoughtful  of  him,  since 
she  came  back  from  the  stranded  theatri 
cal  company,  than  ever  before,  and  the 
wheel  mumbled  its  belief  that  this  was  true ; 
she  had  stayed  at  home  every  night  since 
she  came  back,  and  the  wheel  whirred  sym 
pathetically  ;  she  had  added  many  bright 
touches  to  the  little  shanty  on  Jersey  Creek, 
and  the  wheel  rolled  back  no  denial;  why 
then  should  they  say  these  things,  he  asked. 
"Why?"  snarled  the  wheel, — what  if  she  had 
enjoyed  the  things  young  girls  enjoy,  pretty 
clothes,  buggy  rides,  and  the  attentions  of 
53 


The  Record  on  the  Blotter          53 

young  men ;  do  not  other  girls  have  these 
things?  "They  do,"  growled  the  wheel,  as 
it  struggled  with  the  belt ;  then  is  she  worse 
than  other  girls  because  she  had  no  mother, 
he  concluded,  and  "No,  no,  no, ' '  moaned  the 
wheel  in  a  constant  torrent  of  wrath  against 
the  world — the  old  man's  little  world  that 
was  organized  against  his  daughter — so  that 
he  was  in  a  frenzy  at  it,  and  cursed  it  and  its 
figure  heads,  who  had  told  him,  not  in  hints, 
but  bluntly,  that  his  daughter  could  not  stay 
in  the  Jersey  Creek  neighborhood.  The 
wheel  ground  the  anger  into  his  soul  as  he 
stood  at  his  bench  beside  it ;  at  lunch  time 
he  kept  apart  from  the  men  in  the  shops  and 
barely  tasted  his  food.  The  thought  of 
what  Mrs.  Hinkley  had  said  to  him  as  he 
passed  her  house  that  morning  going  to  his 
work,  inflamed  him,  and  it  seemed  a  wonder 
to  him  that  he  could  stand  there  so  dumbly 
and  listen,  without  rage,  and  without  i  tter- 
ing  one  resentful  syllable,  until  she  had 
closed  her  door  behind  her.  How  he  longed 
to  fly  at  her,  and  what  a  fury  of  words 
burned  on  his  tongue  as  the  hours  dragged 


54  The  Real  Issue 

on,  and  he  mumbled  incoherent,  passionate 
phrases  to  the  wheel. 

As  soon  as  the  children  were  on  the 
streets  and  the  men  well  out  of  the  houses, 
*the  women  of  the  Jersey  Creek  neighborhood 
knew  what  Mrs.  Hinkley  had  done.  She 
told  how  Mr.  Beasly,  shame-faced  and 
speechless,  had  listened  to  her  protest 
against  letting  the  girl  remain  in  the  honest 
neighborhood,  and  the  women,  mistaking 
his  dumb  surprise  for  a  confession  of  guilt, 
let  their  indignation  carry  them  to  a  point 
where  it  was  decided  that  Mrs.  Hinkley 
should  go  to  the  Beasly  house  and  tell  the 
daughter  what  had  been  said  to  her  father. 

So,  early  in  the  afternoon,  Mrs.  Hinkley 
started  on  her  errand.  When  the  task  was 
done,  Mrs.  Hinkley  went  straight  to  a  neigh 
bor's  house,  where  two  or  three  women 
were  gathered  to  hear  her  report. 

"Well,  I  done  it,"  she  said,  as  she  sank 
into  a  rocking  chair.  "I  did  n't  waste  no 
words,  but  just  up  and  told  her  how  we  all 
knowed  about  her  carryin's  on,  and  how 
she'd  got  to  go  where  she  belonged,  and 


The  Record  on  the  Blotter          55 

how  her  pap  knowed  it,  and  how  he  just  as 
good  as  said  he  'd  see  she  went.  Oh,  I  guess 
she  won't  flounce  'round  here  in  her  fine 
rags  much  more.  Say?  Why,  bless  you, 
what  could  she  say?  She  didn  't  say 
nothin' ;  didn't  even  whimper,  the  brazen 
thing,  at  my  tellin'  her  how  her  old  pap 
hung  his  head  and  sneaked  off  when  I  faced 
him  with  her  wickedness.  And  as  they 
was  nothin'  else  to  say  and  she  did  n't  want 
to  argie,  I  got  up  and  left." 

The  wheel  may  have  told  the  old  man 
something  of  this,  for  it  groaned  and  wailed 
and  howled  in  agony  that  afternoon,  until 
the  workman's  nerves  were  frayed  and  tat 
tered  by  its  lashings.  At  three  o'clock  he 
could  stand  it  no  longer,  and  he  let  the 
foreman  put  a  substitute  at  his  bench.  Dur 
ing  the  half  hour  which  he  spent  hurrying 
homeward,  a  thousand  horrible  fancies  filled 
his  brain.  What  if  his  motherless  girl  had 
been  wayward,  he  thought,  and  then  nated 
himself  for  thinking  so.  He  saw,  in  the 
fever  heat  of  his  excitement,  all  the  unno 
ticed  carelessness  of  his  course  toward  her; 


56  The  Real  Issue 

it  flashed  across  his  mind  that  he  had  al 
lowed  her  to  choose  her  own  companions, 
and  then  he  thought  with  horror  of  the  big 
city  beyond  Jersey  Creek.  But  a  warm 
flush  of  tenderness  came  over  him  at  the 
recollection  of  her  gentleness;  the  hundred 
little  caresses  which  she  threw  to  him  in 
passing,  while  at  her  work,  erased  his  self- 
condemnation  and  thrilled  him  with  hap 
piness.  The  grim  workingman  was  think 
ing  as  does  a  drunken  man,  reasoning 
with  the  syllogism  of  a  delirium.  A  train 
thundered  by  as  he  passed  Mrs.  Hinkley's 
house.  He  met  her  at  her  door.  She  said 
something  he  did  not  hear  for  the  crashing 
train.  An  instinctive  fear  that  she  had  been 
taunting  his  daughter  quickened  his  pace 
to  a  trot. 

The  house  was  quiet,  the  dark  blue  cam 
bric  curtains  were  down.  The  thought  of 
his  poor  girl  suffering  from  the  woman's 
cruel  taunts  frenzied  him.  As  he  ran  around 
the  house  there  was  no  thought  of  anything 
save  his  daughter's  innocence  in  his  mind. 
All  her  goodness  rose  before  him  as  he 


The  Record  on  the  Blotter          57 

darted  in  the  back  door.  He  did  not  con 
nect  the  presence  of  a  pungent  smoke  in  the 
kitchen  with  anything  at  all,  but  pressed 
on  to  the  front  room. 

It  was  a  minute — sixty  throbbing  ages — 
before  he  realized  it  all.  Then  he  recalled 
the  face  of  the  taunting  woman  in  the  street. 
He  instinctively  knew  what  she  had  said, 
and  in  the  very  tension  of  his  nerves,  his 
iron  frame  was  rigid  and  his  pulse  seemed 
calm.  He  did  not  break,  and  his  eyes, 
which  in  cool  hate  saw  only  the  taunting  face, 
were  not  soothed  by  tears.  He  knew,  with 
a  wisdom  wiser  than  his  own  simple  deduc 
tion,  that  the  taunting  lips  would  call  his 
daughter's  death  confession.  Then  he  saw 
that  she  had  done  it  to  save  him  from  the 
very  disgrace  she  was  bringing  upon  herself. 
He  was  conscious  for  the  first  time  of  the 
pungent  odor  of  the  smoke.  He  picked  up 
the  pistol  which  still  smelled  strongly  cf  the 
burned  powder.  There  was  one  load  gone, 
and  the  tempter  came  as  he  looked  at  the 
loaded  cylinders.  Then,  in  a  burst  of  lurid, 
unhealthy  light  that  came,  as  he  saw  that 


58  The  Real  Issue 

his  death  would  only  attest  his  child's  dis 
grace,  he  formed  a  plan  for  denying  her  con 
fession  to  the  world  and  to  the  taunting 
face.  The  jolting  processes  of  his  brain  were 
being  moved  by  a  power  that  came  from 
the  jarring,  broken  logic  of  a  dream. 

In  another  hour  this  power  had  welded 
into  fact,  the  grotesque  resolution  of  his 
dream.  The  record  on  the  captain's  blotter 
at  the  station  read : 

"John  Beasly,  aged  60.  Held  for  the 
murder  of  Alice  Beasly,  his  daughter.  Con 
fessed  to  the  captain  in  charge." 


The  King  of  Boyville 

BOYS  who  are  born  in  a  small  town  are 
born  free  and  equal.  In  the  big  city 
it  may  be  different ;  there  are  doubtless 
good  little  boys  who  disdain  bad  little  boys, 
and  poor  little  boys  who  are  never  to  be  no 
ticed  under  any  circumstances.  But  in  a 
small  town,  every  boy,  good  or  bad,  rich  or 
poor,  stands  among  boys  on  his  own  merits. 
The  son  of  the  banker  who  owns  a  turning- 
pole  in  the  back  yard,  does  homage  to  the 
baker's  boy  who  can  sit  on  the  bar  and  drop 
and  catch  by  his  legs ;  while  the  good  little 
boy  who  is  kept  in  wide  collars  and  cuffs  by 
a  mistaken  mother,  gazes  through  the  white 
paling  of  his  father's  fence  at  the  troop 
headed  for  the  swimming  hole,  and  pays  all 
the  reverence  which  his  dwarfed  nature  can 
muster  to  the  sign  of  the  two  fingers. 
In  the  social  order  of  boys  who  live  in  coun- 
59 


60  The  Real  Issue 

try  towns,  a  boy  is  measured  by  what  he 
can  do,  and  not  by  what  his  father  is.  And 
so,  Winfield  Hancock  Pennington,  whose 
boy  name  was  Piggy  Pennington,  was  the 
King  of  Boyville.  For  Piggy  could  walk  on 
his  hands,  curling  one  foot  gracefully  over 
his  back,  and  pointing  the  other  straight  in 
the  air;  he  could  hang  by  his  heels  on  a  fly 
ing  trapeze ;  he  could  chin  a  pole  so  many 
times  that  no  one  could  count  the  number; 
he  could  turn  a  somersault  in  the  air  from 
the  level  ground,  both  backwards  and  for 
wards,  he  could  "tread"  water  and  "lay" 
his  hair;  he  could  hit  any  marble  in  any  ring 
from  "taws"  and  "knucks  down," — and  bet 
ter  than  all,  he  could  cut  his  initials  in  the 
ice  on  skates,  and  whirl  around  and  around 
so  many  times  that  he  looked  like  an  ani 
mated  shadow,  when  he  would  dart  away  up 
the  stream,  his  red  "comfort"  flapping  be 
hind  him  like  a  laugh  of  defiance.  In  the 
story  books  such  a  boy  would  be  the  son  of 
a  widowed  mother,  and  turn  out  very  good 
or  very  bad,  but  Piggy  was  not  a  story  book 
boy,  and  his  father  kept  a  grocery  store,  from 


The  King  of  Boyville  61 

which  Piggy  used  to  steal  so  many  dates  that 
the  boys  said  his  father  must  have  cut  up 
the  almanac  to  supply  him.  As  he  never 
gave  the  goodies  to  the  other  boys,  but  kept 
them  for  his  own  use,  his  name  of  "Piggy" 
was  his  by  all  the  rights  of  Boyville. 

There  was  one  thing  Piggy  Pennington 
could  not  do,  and  it  was  the  one  of  all 
things  which  he  most  wished  he  could  do ; 
he  could  not  under  any  circumstances  say 
three  consecutive  and  coherent  words  to  any 
girl  under  fifteen  and  over  nine.  He  was 
invited  with  nearly  all  of  the  boys  of  his  age 
in  town,  to  children's  parties.  And  while 
any  other  boy,  whose  only  accomplishment 
was  turning  a  cart  wheel,  or  skinning  the 
cat  backwards,  or,  at  most,  hanging  by  one 
leg  and  turning  a  handspring,  could  boldly 
ask  a  girl  if  he  could  see  her  home,  Piggy 
had  to  get  his  hat  and  sneak  out  of  the 
house  when  the  company  broke  up.  He 
would  comfort  himself  by  walking  along  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  street  from  some 
couple,  while  he  talked  in  monosyllables 
about  a  joke  which  he  and  the  boy  knew, 


62  The  Real  Issue 

but  which  was  always  a  secret  to  the  girl. 
Even  after  school  Piggy  could  not  join  the 
select  coterie  of  boys  who  followed  the  girls 
down  through  town  to  the  postoffice.  He 
could  not  tease  the  girls  about  absent  boys 
at  such  times  and  make  up  rhymes  like 

"First  the  cat  and  then  her  tail; 
Jimmy  Sears  and  Maggie  Hale," 

and  shout  them  out  for  the  crowd  to  hear. 
Instead  of  joining  this  courtly  troupe  Piggy 
Pennington  went  off  with  the  boys  who 
really  did  n't  care  for  such  things,  and 
fought,  or  played  "tracks  up,"  or  wrestled 
his  way  leisurely  home  in  time  to  get  in 
his  "night  wood."  But  his  heart  was  not 
in  these  pastimes ;  it  was  with  a  red  shawl 
of  a  peculiar  shade,  that  was  wending  its 
way  to  the  postoffice  and  back  to  a  home  in 
one  of  the  few  two-story  houses  in  the  little 
town.  Time  and  again  had  Piggy  tried  to 
make  some  sign  to  let  his  feelings  be  known, 
but  every  time  he  had  failed.  Lying  in 
wait  for  her  at  corners,  and  suddenly  break 
ing  upon  her  with  a  glory  of  backward  and 
forward  somersaults  did  not  convey  the  state 


The  King  of  Boyville  63 

of  his  heart.  Hanging  by  his  heels  from  an 
apple  tree  limb  over  the  sidewalk  in  front  of 
her,  unexpectedly,  did  not  tell  the  tender  tale 
for  which  his  lips  could  find  no  words.  And 
the  nearest  he  could  come  to  an  expression  of 
the  longing  in  his  breast,  was  to  cut  her  ini 
tials  in  the  ice  beside  his  own  when  she  came 
weaving  and  wobbling  past  on  some  other 
boy's  arm.  But  she  would  not  look  at  the 
initials,  and  the  chirography  of  his  skates 
was  so  indistinct  that  it  required  a  key ;  and 
everything  put  together,  poor  Piggy  was  no 
nearer  a  declaration  at  the  end  of  the  win 
ter  than  he  had  been  at  the  beginning  of 
autumn.  So  only  one  heart  beat  with  but 
a  single  thought,  and  the  other  took  motto 
candy  and  valentines  and  red  apples  and 
picture  cards  and  other  tokens  of  esteem 
from  other  boys,  and  beat  on  with  any 
number  of  thoughts,  entirely  immaterial  to 
the  uses  of  this  narrative.  But  Piggy  Pen- 
nington  did  not  take  to  the  enchantment  of 
corn  silk  cigarettes  and  rattan  and  grape  vine 
cigars;  he  tried  to  sing,  and  wailed  dismal 
ballads  about  the  "Gypsy's  Warning,"  and 


64  The  Real  Issue 

"The  Child  in  the  Grave  With  Its  Mother," 
and  "She  's  a  Daisy,  She  's  a  Darling, 
She  's  a  Dumpling,  She  's  a  Lamb,"  when 
ever  he  was  in  hearing  distance  of  his  Heart's 
Desire,  in  the  hope  of  conveying  to  her 
some  hint  of  the  state  of  his  affections ; 
but  it  was  useless.  Even  when  he  tried  to 
whistle  plaintively  as  he  passed  her  house 
in  the  gloaming,  his  notes  brought  forth  no 
responsive  echo. 

One  morning  in  the  late  spring,  he  spent 
half  an  hour  before  breakfast  among  his 
mother's  roses,  which  were  just  in  first 
bloom.  He  had  taken  out  there  all  the 
wire  from  an  old  broom,  and  all  his  kite 
string.  His  mother  had  to  call  three  times 
before  he  would  leave  his  work.  The 
youngster  was  the  first  to  leave  the  table, 
and  by  eight  o'clock  he  was  at  his  task  again. 
Before  the  first  school  bell  had  rung,  Piggy 
Pennington  was  bound  for  the  school  house 
writh  a  strange  looking  parcel  under  his  arm. 
He  tried  to  put  his  coat  over  it,  but  it  stuck 
out  and  the  newspaper  that  was  wrapped 
around  it,  bulged  into  so  many  corners, 


The  King  of  Boyville  65 

that  it  looked  like  a  home-tied  bundle  of 
laundry. 

"What  you  got?"  asked  the  freckle- 
faced  boy,  who  was  learning  at  Piggy's  feet 
how  to  do  the  "muscle  grind"  on  the  turn 
ing-pole. 

But  Piggy  Pennington  was  the  King  of 
Boyville,  and  he  had  a  right  to  look  straight 
ahead  of  him,  as  if  he  did  not  hear  the 
question,  and  say: 

"Lookie  here,  Mealy,  I  wish  you  would 
go  and  tell  Abe  I  want  him  to  hurry  up,  for  I 
want  to  see  him." 

"Abe"  was  Piggy's  nearest  friend.  His 
other  name  was  Carpenter.  Piggy  only 
wished  to  be  rid  of  the  freckle-faced  boy. 
But  the  freckle-faced  boy  was  not  used  to 
royalty  and  its  ways,  so  he  pushed  his  in 
quiry. 

"Say,  Piggy,  have  you  got  your  red  ball- 
pants  in  that  bundle?" 

There  was  no  reply.  The  freckle-faced 
boy  grew  tired  of  tatooing  with  a  stick,  as 
they  walked  beside  a  paling  fence,  so  he  be 
gan  touching  every  tree  on  the  other  side  of 


66  The  Real  Issue 

the  path  with  his  fingers.  They  had  gone 
a  block  when  the  freckle-faced  boy  could 
stand  it  no  longer  and  said : 

"Say  Piggy,  you  need  n't  be  so  smart 
about  your  old  bundle;  now  honest,  Piggy, 
what  have  you  got  in  that  bundle?" 

"Aw  —  soft  soap,  take  a  bite  —  good  fer 
yer  appetite,"  said  the  King,  as  he  faced 
about  and  drew  up  his  left  cheek  and  lower 
eye-lid  pugnaciously.  The  freckle-faced 
boy  saw  he  would  have  to  fight  if  he  stayed^ 
so  he  turned  to  go,  and  said,  as  though  noth 
ing  had  happened,  "Where  do  you  suppose 
old  Abe  is,  anyhow?" 

Just  before  school  was  called  Piggy  Pen- 
nington  was  playing  "scrub"  with  all  his 
might, and  a  little  girl — his  Heart's  Desire — 
was  taking  out  of  her  desk  a  wreath  of  roses, 
tied  to  a  shaky  wire  frame.  There  was  a 
crowd  of  girls  around  her  admiring  it,  and 
speculating  about  the  possible  author  of  the 
gift ;  but  to  these  she  did  not  show  the  pat 
ent  medicine  card,  on  which  was  scrawled, 
over  the  druggist's  advertisement: 

"Yours  truly,         W,  H.  P." 


The  King  of  Boyville  67 

When  the  last  bell  rang,  Piggy  Penning- 
ton  was  the  last  boy  in,  and  he  did  not  look 
toward  the  desk,  where  he  had  put  the  flow 
ers,  until  after  the  singing. 

Then  he  stole  a  sidewise  glance  that  way, 
and  his  Heart's  Desire  was  deep  in  her  geog 
raphy.  It  was  an  age  before  she  filed  past 
him  with  the  "B"  class  in  geography,  and 
took  a  seat  directly  in  front  of  him,  where 
he  could  look  at  her  all  the  time,  unob 
served  by  her.  Once  she  squirmed  in  her 
place  and  looked  toward  him,  but  Piggy 
Pennington  was  head  over  heels  in  the  "Iser 
rolling  rapidly."  When  their  eyes  did  at 
last  meet,  just  as  Piggy,  leading  the  march 
ing  around  the  room,  was  at  the  door  to  go 
out  for  recess,  the  thrill  amounted  to  a 
shock  that  sent  him  whirling  in  a  pin  wheel 
of  handsprings  toward  the  ball  ground, 
shouting  "scrub  —  first  bat,  first  bat,  first 
bat,"  from  sheer,  bubbling  joy.  Piggy 
made  four  tallies  that  recess,  and  the  other 
boys  could  n't  have  put  him  out,  if  they  had 
used  a  hand-grenade  or  a  Babcock  fire  ex 
tinguisher. 


68  The  Real  Issue 

He  received  four  distinct  shots  that  day 
from  the  eyes  of  his  Heart's  Desire,  and  the 
last  one  sent  him  home  on  the  run,  tripping 
up  every  primary  urchin,  whom  he  found 
tagging  along  by  the  way,  and  whooping  at 
the  top  of  his  voice.  When  his  friends  met 
in  his  barn,  some  fifteen  minutes  later,  Piggy 
tried  to  turn  a  double  somersault  from  his 
spring  board,  to  the  admiration  of  the 
crowd,  and  was  only  calmed  by  falling  with 
his  full  weight  on  his  head  and  shoulders  at 
the  edge  of  the  hay,  with  the  life  nearly 
jolted  out  of  his  little  body. 

The  next  morning,  Piggy  Pennington  as 
tonished  his  friends  by  bringing  a  big  armful 
of  red  and  yellow  and  pink  and  white  roses 
to  school. 

He  had  never  done  this  before,  and  when 
he  had  run  the  gauntlet  of  the  big  boys, 
who  were  not  afraid  to  steal  them  from  him, 
he  made  straight  for  his  schoolroom,  and 
stood  holding  them  in  his  hands  while  the 
girls  gathered  about  him  teasing  for  the 
beauties.  It  was  nearly  time  for  the  last 
bell  to  ring,  and  Piggy  knew  that  his  Heart's 


The  King  of  Boyville  69 

Desire  would  be  in  the  room  by  the  time 
he  got  there.  He  was  not  mistaken.  But 
Heart's  Desire  did  not  clamor  with  the  other 
girls  for  one  of  the  roses.  Piggy  stood  off 
their  pleadings  as  long  as  he  could  with 
"Naw, "  "Why  naw,  of  course  I  won't," 
"Naw,  what  I  want  to  give  you  one  for," 
and  "Go  way  from  here  I  tell  you,"  and 
still  Heart's  Desire  did  not  ask  for  her  flow 
ers.  There  were  but  a  few  moments  left 
before  school  would  be  called  to  order,  and 
in  desperation  Piggy  gave  one  rose  away. 
It  was  not  a  very  pretty  rose,  but  he  hoped 
she  would  see  that  the  others  were  to  be  given 
away,  and  ask  for  one.  But  she  —  his  Heart's 
Desire  —  stood  near  a  window,  talking  to  the 
freckle-faced  boy.  Then  Piggy  gave  away 
one  rose  after  another.  As  the  last  bell  be 
gan  to  ring  he  gave  them  to  the  boys,  as 
the  girls  were  all  supplied.  And  still  she 
came  not.  There  was  one  rose  left,  the 
most  beautiful  of  all.  She  went  to  her  desk, 
and  as  the  teacher  came  in,  bell  in  hand, 
Piggy  surprised  himself,  the  teacher,  and 
the  school  by  laying  the  beautiful  flower, 


yo  The  Real  Issue 

without  a  word  on  the  teacher's  desk.  That 
day  was  a  dark  day.  When  a  new  boy,  who 
did  n't  belong  to  the  school,  came  up  at  re 
cess  to  play,  Piggy  shuffled  over  to  him  and 
asked  gruffly: 

"What  's  your  name?" 

"Puddin'  *n'  tame,  ast  me  agin  an'  I  '11 
tell  you  the  same,"  said  the  new  boy,  and 
then  there  was  a  fight.  It  did  n't  sooth 
Piggy's  feelings  one  bit  that  he  whipped  the 
new  boy,  for  the  new  boy  was  smaller  than 
Piggy.  And  he  dared  not  turn  his  flushed 
face  towards  his  Heart's  Desire.  It  was 
almost  four  o'clock  when  Piggy  Pennington 
walked  to  the  master's  desk  to  get  him  to 
work  out  a  problem,  and  as  he  passed  the 
desk  of  Heart's  Desire  he  dropped  a  note 
in  her  lap.  It  read: 

"Are  you  mad?" 

But  he  dared  not  look  for  the  answer,  as 
they  marched  out  that  night,  so  he  con 
tented  himself  with  punching  the  boy  ahead 
of  him  with  a  pin,  and  stepping  on  his  heels, 
when  they  were  in  the  back  part  of  the  room, 
where  the  teacher  would  not  see  him.  The 


The  King  of  Boyville  7  I 

King  of  Boyville  walked  home  alone  that 
evening.  The  courtiers  saw  plainly  that  his 
majesty  was  troubled. 

So  his  lonely  way  was  strewn  with  broken 
stick-horses,  which  he  took  from  the  little 
boys,  and  was  marked  by  trees  adorned  with 
the  string,  which  he  took  from  other  young 
sters,  who  ran  across  his  pathway  playing 
horse.  In  his  barn  he  sat  listlessly  on  a 
nail  keg,  while  Abe  and  the  freckle-faced  boy 
did  their  deeds  of  daring,  on  the  rings,  and 
the  trapeze.  Only  when  the  new  boy  came 
in,  did  Piggy  arouse  himself  to  mount  the 
flying  bar,  and,  swinging  in  it  to  the  very  raf 
ters,  drop  and  hang  by  his  knees,  and  again 
drop  from  his  knees,  catching  his  ankle  in 
the  angle  of  the  rope  where  it  meets  the 
swinging  bar.  That  was  to  awe  the  new  boy. 

After  this  feat  the  King  was  quiet. 

At  dusk,  when  the  evening  chores  were 
done,  Piggy  Pennington  walked  past  the 
home  of  his  Heart's  Desire  and  howled  out 
a  doleful  ballad  which  began : 

"  You  ask  what  makes   this   darkey   wee  -eep, 
Why  he  like  others  am    not  gay." 


J2  The  Real  Issue 

But  a  man  on  the  sidewalk  passing  said, 
"Well  son,  that  's  pretty  good,  but  would  n't 
you  just  as  lief  sing  as  to  make  that  noise." 
So  the  King  went  to  bed  with  a  heavy  heart. 
He  took  that  heart  to  school  with  him,  the 
next  morning,  and  dragged  it  over  the  school 
ground,  playing  crack  the  whip  and  "stink- 
base."  But  when  he  saw  Heart's  Desire 
wearing  in  her  hair  one  of  the  white  roses 
from  his  mother's  garden — the  Pennington's 
had  the  only  white  roses  in  the  little  town  — 
he  knew  it  was  from  the  wreath  which  he  had 
given  her,  and  so  light  was  his  boyish  heart, 
that  it  was  with  an  effort  that  he  kept  it  out 
of  his  throat.  There  were  smiles  and  smiles 
that  day.  During  the  singing  they  began, 
and  every  time  she  came  past  him  from  a 
class,  and  every  time  he  could  pry  his  eyes 
behind  her  geography,  or  her  grammar,  a 
flood  of  gladness  swept  over  his  soul.  That 
night  Piggy  Pennington  followed  the  girls 
from  the  schoolhouse  to  the  postoffice,  and 
in  a  burst  of  enthusiasm,  he  walked  on  his 
hands  in  front  of  the  crowd,  for  nearly  half 
a  block.  When  his  Heart's  Desire  said: 


The  King  of  Boyville  73 

"O  ain't  you  afraid  you  '11  hurt  yourself, 
doing  that?"  Piggy  pretended  not  to  hear 
her,  and  said  to  the  boys: 

"Aw,  that  ain't  nothin' ;  come  down  to 
my  barn,  an'  I  '11  do  somepin  that'll  make 
yer  head  swim." 

He  was  too  exuberant  to  contain  himself, 
and  when  he  left  the  girls  he  started  to  run 
after  a  stray  chicken,  that  happened  along, 
and  ran  till  he  was  out  of  breath.  He  did 
not  mean  to  run  in  the  direction  his  Heart's 
Desire  had  taken,  but  he  turned  a  corner, 
and  came  up  with  her  suddenly. 

Her  eyes  beamed  upon  him,  and  he  could 
not  run  away,  as  he  wished.  She  made 
room  for  him  on  the  sidewalk,  and  he  could 
do  nothing  but  walk  beside  her.  For  a 
block  they  were  so  embarrassed  that  neither 
spoke. 

It  was  Piggy  who  broke  the  silence.  His 
words  came  from  his  heart.  He  had  not 
yet  learned  to  speak  otherwise. 

"Where  's  your  rose?"  he  asked,  not  see 
ing  it. 

"What  rose?"  said  the  girl,  as  though  she 


74  The  Real  Issue 

had  never  in  her  short  life  heard  of  such  an 
absurd  thing  as  a  rose. 

"Oh,  you  know,"  returned  the  boy,  step 
ping  irregularly,  to  make  the  tips  of  his  toes 
come  on  the  cracks  in  the  sidewalk.  There 
was  another  pause,  during  which  Piggy 
picked  up  a  pebble,  and  threw  it  at  a  bird  in 
a  tree.  His  heart  was  sinking  rapidly. 

"O,  that  rose?"  said  his  Heart's  Desire, 
turning  full  upon  him  with  the  enchantment 
of  her  childish  eyes.  "Why,  here  it  is  in  my 
grammar.  I  'm  taking  it  to  keep  with  the 
others.  Why?" 

"O,  nuthin'  much,"  replied  the  boy.  "I 
bet  you  can't  do  this,"  he  added,  as  he 
glowed  up  into  her  eyes  from  an  impulsive 
handspring. 

And  thus  the  King  of  Boyville  first  set  his 
light,  little  foot  upon  the  soil  of  an  unknown 
country. 


A  Story  of  The  Highlands 

/CROSSING  the  Missouri  river  into 
v — '  Kansas,  the  west-bound  traveler  be 
gins  a  steady,  upward  climb,  until  he 
reaches  the  summit  of  the  Rockies.  The 
journey  through  Kansas  covers  in  four 
hundred  miles  nearly  five  thousand  feet  of 
the  long,  upward  slant.  In  that  long  hillside 
there  are  three  or  four  distinct  kinds  of  land 
scape,  distinguished  from  one  another  by 
the  trees  that  trim  the  horizon. 

The  hills  and  bluffs  that  roll  away  from 
the  river  are  covered  with  scrub  oaks,  elms, 
walnuts,  and  sycamores.  As  the  wayfarer 
pushes  westward,  the  oak  drops  back,  then 
the  sycamore  follows  the  walnut,  and  fin 
ally  the  elm  disappears,  until  three  hundred 
miles  to  the  westward,  the  horizon  of  the 
"gently  rolling"  prairie  is  serrated  by  the 
scraggy  cottonwood,  that  rises  awkwardly 
•  75 


j6  The  Real  Issue 

by  some  sandbarred  stream,  oozing  over  the 
moundy  land.  Another  fifty  miles,  and  at 
Garden  City,  high  up  on  the  background 
of  the  panorama,  even  the  cottonwood  stag 
gers;  and  here  and  there,  around  some  sink 
hole  in  the  great  flat  floor  of  the  prairie, 
droops  a  desolate  willow — the  last  weary 
pilgrim  from  the  lowlands. 

When  the  traveler  has  mounted  to  this 
high  table  land,  nearly  four  hundred  miles 
from  the  Missouri,  he  may  walk  for  days 
without  seeing  any  green  thing  higher  than 
his  head.  He  may  journey  for  hours  on 
horseback,  and  not  climb  a  hill,  seeing 
before  him  only  the  level  and  often  barren 
plain,  scarred  now  and  then  by  irrigation 
ditches. 

The  even  line  of  the  horizon  is  seldom 
marred.  The  silence  of  such  a  scene  gnaws 
the  glamour  from  the  heart.  Men  become 
harsh  and  hard ;  women  grow  withered  and 
sodden  under  its  blighting  power.  The 
song  of  wood  birds  is  not  heard ;  even  the 
mournful  plaint  of  the  meadow  lark  loses  its 
sentiment,  where  the  dreary  clanking  drone 


A  Story  of  the  Highlands          77 

of  the  wind-mill  is  the  one  song  which  really 
brings  good  tidings  with  it.  Long  and 
fiercely  sounds  this  unrhythmical  monody 
in  the  night,  when  the  traveler  lies  down  to 
rest  in  the  little  sun-burned,  pine-board  town. 
The  gaunt  arms  of  the  wheel  hurl  its  im 
precations  at  him  as  he  rises  to  resume  his 
journey  into  the  silence,  under  the  great 
gray  dome,  with  its  canopy  pegged  tightly 
down  about  him  everywhere. 

Crops  are  as  bountiful  in  Kansas  as 
elsewhere  on  the  globe.  It  is  the  con 
stant  cry  for  aid,  coming  from  this  pla 
teau — only  a  small  part  of  the  state — which 
reaches  the  world's  ears,  and  the  world 
blames  Kansas.  The  fair  springs  on  these 
highlands  lure  home-seekers  to  their  ruin. 

Hundreds  of  men  and  women  have  been 
tempted  to  death  or  worse,  by  this  Lorelei 
of  the  prairies. 

A  young  man  named  Burkholder  came  out 
to  Fountain  county  in  1885.  He  had  been 
a  well-to-do  young  fellow  in  Illinois,  was  a 
graduate  of  an  inland  college,  a  man  of  good 
judgment,  of  sense,  of  a  well-arranged 


7 8  The  Real  Issue 

mental  perspective.  In  1885  money  was 
plentiful.  He  stocked  his  farm,  put  on  a 
mortgage,  and  brought  a  wife  back  from  the 
home  of  his  boyhood.  She  was  a  young 
woman  of  culture,  who  put  a  bookshelf  in 
the  corner  of  the  best  of  the  three  rooms  in 
the  yellow  pine  shanty,  in  which  she  and  her 
husband  lived.  She  brought  her  upright 
piano,  and  adorned  her  bed-room  floor  with 
bright  rugs.  She  bought  magazines  at  the 
"Post  Office  Book  Store"  of  the  prairie 
town.  She  was  not  despondent.  The  vast 
stretches  of  green  cheered  her  through  the 
hot  summer.  There  was  a  novel  fascination 
in  the  wide,  treeless  horizon  which  charmed 
her  for  a  while.  At  first  she  never  tired  of 
glancing  up  from  her  work,  through  the  south 
window  of  the  kitchen,  to  see  the  level  green 
stretches,  and  the  road  that  merged  into  the 
distance.  She  sat  in  the  shade  of  the  house, 
and  wrote  home  cheerful,  rollicking  letters. 
As  for  roughing  it,  she  enjoyed  it  thor 
oughly. 

The  crops  did  not  quite  pay  the  expenses 
of  the  year;    so   "Thomas  Burkholder  and 


A  Story  of  the  Highlands          79 

Lizzie  his  wife"  put  another  mortgage  on  the 
farm.  The  books  and  magazines  from  home 
still  adorned  the  best  room.  And  all  through 
the  winter  and  spring,  the  prevailing  spir 
its  of  the  community  buoyed  up  the  young 
people.  It  was  during  the  summer  of 
1887  that  the  first  hot  winds  came.  They 
blighted  everything.  The  kaffir  corn,  the 
grass,  the  dust-laden  weeds  by  the  wayside 
curled  up  under  their  fiery  breath  from 
the  southwestern  desert.  Mrs.  Burkholder 
stayed  indoors.  The  dust  spread  itself  over 
everything.  It  came  into  the  house  like  a 
flood,  pouring  through  the  loose  window 
frames  and  weather-boarding.  Mrs.  Burk 
holder,  looking  out  of  her  window  on  these 
days,  could  see  only  a  great  dust  dragon, 
writhing  up  and  down  the  brown  road  and 
over  the  prairie  for  miles  and  miles.  The 
scene  seemed  weirdly  dry.  She  found 
herself  longing,  one  day,  for  a  fleck  of 
water  in  the  landscape.  That  longing  grew 
upon  her.  She  said  nothing  of  it,  but  in 
her  day  dreams  there  was  always  a  mental 
itching  to  put  water  into  the  lustreless  pic- 


8o  The  Real  Issue 

ture  framed  by  her  kitchen  window.  It  was 
a  kind  of  soul  thirst.  In  one  of  her  letters 
she  wrote : 

"The  hot  winds  have  killed  everything 
this  year,  but  most  of  all  I  grieve  for  the 
little  cottonwood  saplings  on  the  'eighty'  in 
front  of  the  house.  There  is  not  a  tree 
anywhere  in  sight,  and  as  the  government  re 
quires  that  we  should  plant  trees  on  our 
place,  as  a  partial  payment  for  it,  I  was  so 
in  hopes  that  these  would  do  well.  They 
are  burned  up  now.  You  do  n't  know  how 
lonesome  it  seems  without  trees." 

She  did  not  tell  the  home  folk  that  her 
piano  and  the  books  had  gone  to  buy  pro 
visions  for  the  winter.  She  did  not  tell  the 
home  folk  that  she  had  not  bought  a  new 
dress  since  she  left  Illinois.  She  did  not 
let  her  petty  cares  burden  her  letter.  She 
wrote  of  generalities.  "You  do  not  know 
how  I  miss  the  hills.  Tom  and  I  rode 
twenty  miles  yesterday,  to  a  place  called  the 
Taylor  Bottom.  It  is  a  deep  sink-hole,  per 
haps  fifty  feet  deep,  containing  about  ten 
square  acres.  By  getting  down  into  this  we 


A  Story  of  the  Highlands          8 1 

have  the  effect  of  hills.  You  cannot  know 
how  good  and  snug,  and  tucked  in  and 
'comfy'  it  seemed.  It  is  so  naked  at  the 
house  with  the  knife-edge  on  the  horizon, 
and  only  the  sky  over  you.  Tom  and  I 
have  been  busy.  I  have  n't  had  time  to 
read  the  story  in  the  magazine  you  sent  me. 
Tom  can't  get  corduroys  out  here.  You 
should  see  him  in  overalls." 

Mrs.  Burkholder  helped  her  husband  look 
after  the  cattle.  The  hired  man  went  away 
in  the  early  fall.  This  she  did  not  write 
home  either.  All  through  the  winter  days 
she  heard  the  keen  wind  whistle  around  the 
house,  and  when  she  was  alone  a  dread 
blanched  her  face.  The  great  gray  dome 
seemed  to  be  holding  her  its  prisoner.  She 
felt  chained  under  it.  She  shut  her  eyes  and 
strove  to  get  away  from  it  in  fancy,  to  think 
of  green  hills  and  woodland;  but  her  eyes 
tore  themselves  open,  and  with  a  hypnotic 
terror  she  went  to  the  window,  where  the 
prairie  thrall  bound  her  again  in  its  chains. 

The  cemetery  for  the  prairie  town  had 
been  started  during  the  spring  before,  and 


82  The  Real  Issue 

some  one  had  planted  therein  a  solitary  cot- 
tonwood  sapling.  Its  two  dead,  gaunt 
branches  seemed  to  be  beckoning  her,  and 
all  day  she  thought  she  heard  the  winds 
shriek  through  the  new  iron  fences  around 
the  graves  and  through  the  grass  that  grew 
wild  about  the  dead.  The  scene  haunted 
her.  It  was  for  this  end  that  the  gray  dome 
held  her,  she  thought,  as  she  listened  during 
the  cold  nights  to  the  hard,  dry  snow  as  it 
beat  against  the  board  shanty  wherein  she 
lay  awake. 

In  the  spring  the  mover's  caravan  filed  by 
the  house,  starting  eastward  before  planting 
time.  When  the  train  of  wagons  had  passed 
the  year  before,  Mrs.  Burkholder  had  been 
amused  by  the  fantastic  legends,  which  the 
wagon  covers — white,  clean,  prosperous — 
had  borne.  ''Kansas  or  bust,"  they  used 
to  read  when  headed  westward.  "Busted" 
was  the  laconic  legend,  written  under  the  old 
motto  on  their  first  eastward  trip.  "Going 
back  to  wife's  folks,  "had  been  a  common 
jocose  motto  at  first.  Mrs.  Burkholder 
and  her  husband  had  laughed  over  this 


A  Story  of  the  Highlands  83 

the  year  before,  but  this  year  as  she 
saw  the  long  line  file  out  of  the  west 
into  the  east,  she  missed  the  banners.  She 
noticed,  with  a  mental  pang,  that  those  who 
came  out  of  the  country  this  year  seemed 
to  be  thankful  to  get  out  at  all.  There 
were  times  when  she  had  to  struggle  to  con 
ceal  her  cowardice ;  for  she  wished  to  turn 
away  from  the  fight,  to  flee  from  the  gray 
dome,  and  from  the  beckoning  of  the  dead 
cottonwood  in  the  graveyard. 

The  spring  slipped  away,  and  another  sul 
try  summer  came  on,  and  then  a  long, 
dry  fall.  Mrs.  Burkholder  and  her  hus 
band  worked  together. 

There  were  whole  weeks  when  she  neg 
lected  her  toilet;  she  tried  to  brighten  up 
in  the  evening,  and  dutifully  went  at  the 
magazines  that  were  regularly  sent  to  her  by 
the  home  folks. 

But  she  seemed  to  need  sleep,  and  the 
cares  of  the  day  weighed  upon  her.  The 
interests  of  the  world  of  culture  grew  small 
in  her  vision.  The  work  before  her 
seemed  to  demand  all  her  thought;  so  that 


84  The  Real  Issue 

serial  after  serial  slipped  through  the  maga 
zines  unread,  and  new  literary  men  and  fads 
rose  and  fell,  all  unknown  to  her.  The  pile 
of  magazines  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  grew 
dustier  every  day. 

The  Burkholders  got  their  share  of  the 
seed-grain  sent  to  Fountain  county  by  the 
Kansas  Legislature,  and  just  after  planting 
time  in  1889,  the  land  was  gloriously  green. 
But  before  July,  the  promises  had  been 
mocked  by  the  hiss  of  the  hot  wind  in  the 
dead  grass.  That  fall  one  of  their  horses 
died. 

Saturday  after  Saturday,  Burkholder  went 
to  the  prairie  town  and  brought  home  gro 
ceries  and  coal.  It  was  a  source  of  constant 
terror  to  him  that  some  day  his  wife  might 
ask  how  he  got  these  supplies.  She  hid  it 
from  herself  as  long  as  she  could.  All  win 
ter  they  would  not  admit  to  each  other  that 
they  were  living  on  "aid."  On  many  a 
gray,  blustering  afternoon,  when  Burkholder 
was  in  the  village  getting  provisions,  a  strag 
gler  on  the  road  might  see  his  wife 
coming  around  the  house,  with  two  buckets 


A  Story  of  the  Highlands  85 

of  water  in  her  hands,  the  water  splashing 
against  her  feet,  which  were  encased  in  a 
pair  of  her  husband's  old  shoes,  the  wind 
pushing  her  thin  calico  skirts  against  her 
limbs,  and  her  frail  body  bent  stiffly  in  the 
man's  coat  that  she  wore.  Her  arms  and 
shoulders  seemed  to  shiver  and  crouch  with 
the  cold,  and  her  blue  features  were  so 
drawn  that  her  friendly  smile  at  the  wayfarer 
was  only  a  grimace. 

In  the  spring  many  men  in  Fountain 
county  went  East  looking  for  work.  They 
left  their  wives  with  God  and  the  county 
commissioners.  Burkholder  dumbly  went 
with  them.  In  March,  the  covered  wagon 
train  began  to  file  past  the  Burkholder  house. 
By  April  it  was  a  continuous  line — shabby, 
tattered,  rickety,  dying.  Here  came  a 
wagon  covered  with  bed  quilts,  there 
another  topped  with  oil-cloth  table  covers; 
another  followed,  patched  with  everything. 
For  two  years,  the  mover's  caravan  trailing 
across  the  plains  had  taken  the  shape  of  a 
huge  dust-colored  serpent  in  the  woman's 
fancy;  now  it  seemed  to  Mrs.  Burkholder 


86  The  Real  Issue 

that  the  terrible  creature  was  withering  away, 
that  this  was  its  skeleton.  The  treeless 
landscape  worried  her  more  and  more;  the 
steel  dome  seemed  set  tighter  over  her,  and 
she  sat  thirsting  for  water  in  the  landscape. 
After  a  month's  communion  with  her  fan 
cies,  Mrs.  Burkholder  nailed  a  black  rag  over 
the  kitchen  window.  But  the  arms  of  the 
dead  sapling  in  the  cemetery  gyrated  wildly 
in  her  sick  imagination.  It  was  a  long  sum 
mer,  and  when  it  was  done,  there  was  one 
more  vacant  house,  one  more  among  hun 
dreds  far  out  on  the  highlands.  There  is 
one  more  mound  in  the  bleak  country  grave 
yard,  where  the  wind,  shrieking  through 
the  iron  fences  and  the  crackling,  dead  cot- 
tonwood  branches,  has  never  learned  a  slum 
ber  song  to  sob  for  a  tired  soul.  But  there 
are  times  when  the  wind  seems  to  moan 
upon  its  sun-parched  chords  like  the  cry  of 
some  lone  spirit  groping  its  tangled  way 
back  to  the  lowlands,  the  green  pastures, 
the  still  waters,  and  to  the  peace  that  passeth 
understanding. 


"The  Fraud  of  Men" 

IT  was  in  the  reception  room  of  a  club 
house  in  an  inland  city,  where  the  two 
young  men  had  met  by  chance  that  evening. 
There  was  a  stuffy  profusion  of  leather  fur 
niture  in  the  room  that  gave  it  a  heavy  cast. 
A  long  dark  table  was  covered  with  papers 
fastened  in  automatic  wooden  holders.  The 
presence  of  the  table  indicated  that  the  club 
was  economizing  space  by  combining  recep 
tion  room  and  reading  room.  The  firm 
grip  of  the  wooden  paper-holder  gave  rise  to 
the  suspicion  that  some  one  might  sell  his 
honor  for  a  nickel  and  walk  off  with  the  papers. 
In  the  club-room,  men  were  talking  in  knots 
of  two  or  three,  apparently  on  business,  and 
when  an  outsider  entered  a  group,  conversa 
tion  was  distinctly  and  painfully  suspended,  or 
lagged  in  cold  formalities  until  he  had  drifted 
away.  The  men  there  were  clearly  business 
87 


88  The  Real  Issue 

men,  and  were  there  by  business  appoint 
ment,  and  the  element  of  sociability  was 
manifest  only  in  the  click  of  the  billiard  balls 
that  echoed  in  from  some  invisible  rear 
room,  where  the  younger  men,  too  tired 
to  go  to  the  theatre,  or  to  the  evening 
gathering  with  their  wives  or  sweethearts, 
were  walking  uncounted  miles  after  the 
ivory  balls.  The  crowd  in  the  room  was 
dressed  better  than  the  crowd  in  the  groce 
ry  store  of  a  smaller  town  in  the  early  even 
ing.  But  in  the  club-room,  adorned  by 
etchings  of  the  "Angelus"  and  "The  Nea 
politan  Girl"  and  "The  Horse  Fair,"  the 
men  gathered  were  inspired  by  much  the 
same  instincts  which  called  the  humbler 
group  together,  and  the  city  men  were  dis 
cussing  affairs  that  differed  in  degree,  not  in 
kind,  from  the  problems  which  keep  conver 
sation  adrift  in  humbler  communities, —  the 
railroad,  the  bridge,  the  market,  and  the 
coming  election. 

It  was  a  brisk  autumn  evening,  and  the 
clock  on  the  mantel  was  striking  eight  when 
two  young  men  pulled  their  fat  chairs  to 


The  Fraud  of  Men  89 

the  window,  where  they  could  see  the  the 
atre  goers  hurrying  by  under  the  arc  light, 
and  where  they  might  not  be  interrupted. 
Their  backs  were  turned  toward  the  center 
of  the  room,  and  they  settled  down  among 
the  springs  with  exclamations  of  comfort 
able  satisfaction. 

"Well,  old  man,  what  d'  you  think  of  the 
East,"  asked  the  shorter  of  the  two,  a  very 
stubby  little  man  with  a  red  face ,  red 
lips  and  a  bristling,  close-cropped  mustache. 
His  companion  was  a  tall  man  with  skinny 
features,  square  shoulders,  a  head  poised 
too  far  back  at  times,  but  capable  of  bend 
ing,  and  he  had  a  habit  of  picking  at  his 
moustache. 

"Oh,  damn  the  East,"  said  the  tall  young 
man.  "Jim,  I  '11  tell  you  what  's  a  God  's 
truth,  they  are  the  worst  lot  of  jays  back 
there, —  absolutely  the  worst,  that  grow  on 
earth.  They  do  n't  know  any  more  about 
this  country,  and  what  's  in  it,  than  a  satrap 
of  Persia.  When  I  told  them  about  our 
scheme,  showed  them  the  map  of  all  this 
land  that  is  to  be  foreclosed,  and  how  the 


90  The  Real  Issue 

whole  thing  can  be  watered  by  a  central 
ditch,  and  all  —  you  remember  how  it  is  out 
there — one  old  rooster  who  has  n't  been  out 
of  his  own  barn-yard  in  all  his  life,  he  up 
and  said,  'Yes,  all  very  good,  very  good, 
indeed,  but  supposing  there  is  an  Indian 
outbreak — then  where  's  all  our  money  for 
your  improvements  gone?'  Say,  Jim,  I  just 
fell  right  over  dead.  I  met  old  man  Wilson 
there, —  say,  hold  on  here,  what  's  this  I 
hear?  Is  that  right?  Say,  when  's  it  going 
to  be?  There  goes  Martin  and  his  kids, 
taking  them  to  Ali  Baba;  see  what  you  're 
coming  to.  So  you  finally  got  your  nerve 
with  you,  did  you?  Go-o-od!" 

With  this  outburst  the  bubbles  of  the  pro 
moter's  enthusiasm  subsided.  His  compan 
ion  reddened  slightly  at  the  raillery  and 
put  one  side  of  his  under  lip  over  his  stubby 
moustache  in  an  embarrassed  silence  that 
ended  in  a  smirk. 

"Well,  Harris,"  he  responded  addressing 
the  taller  friend,  "you  've  guessed  it  the 
first  time,  I  suppose.  But  we  must  all  set 
tle  down  sooner  or  later,  and  anyway  a  man 


The  Fraud  of  Men  91 

don't  find  that  kind  of  a  girl  every  day  in 
the  year."  He  paused  a  moment  and  Harris 
broke  in — 

"Oh,  yes,  if  it  comes  to  that,  I  suppose 
he  must.  I  ain't  a-kicking  any,  am  I? 
Now,  Jimmy,  that  's  a  good  boy,  come  and 
tell  ownest  own  all  about — "  He  was  inter 
rupted  in  his  mock  coddling  by  one  of  the 
drifters  —  who  had  been  knocked  from  half  a 
dozen  groups,  and  had  floated  around  in 
front  of  the  formidable  chairs.  He  was  a 
portly  old  man,  who  had  been  a  country 
banker  in  his  day,  and  had  come  up  and  put 
new  life  into  a  wobbling  institution  after  a 
local  panic.  He  cut  in  with,  "Well,  what 
are  you  kids  gassing  about?  Hello,  there, 
Harris,  did  you  make  your  irrigation  scheme 
go?" 

Harris  looked  up  with  annoyance  written 
unmistakably  on  his  face  as  he  said,  hardly 
civilly,  "Yep,"  and  lapsed  into  silence. 

"Have  any  trouble  getting  at  old  Sage 
with  my  letter?"  persisted  the  elder  man. 

' '  Nope, ' '  responded  the  younger.  ' '  Found 
him  the  only  white  man  in  New  York.  He 


gi  The  Real  Issue 

knew  that  there  have  n't  been  any  grasshop 
pers  in  Kansas  for  twenty-five  years.  Only 
man  in  town  that  did,  though." 

There  was  a  pause,  in  which  Jim  addressed 
a  remark  to  Harris  about  the  big  crowd  that 
was  going  to  the  theatre.  A  cable  train  had 
just  unloaded  at  the  corner.  The  Kansas 
man  took  the  remark  as  general,  and  replied : 

"Say,  ain't  they  though;  been  that  way, 
too,  every  night  this  week." 

"Lookie  quick!  "  exclaimed  Harris  to  his 
companion.  "No  —  this  side — there  goes 
Cameron;  who  's  that  with  her?  Got  a  new 
'mash'  ?" 

"Why,  you  do  n't  mean  to  say  that  you 
haven't  heard,"  replied  Jim,  as  he  shifted 
his  position  in  his  chair.  "She  's  going  to 
get  married,  too.  All  the  old  birds  going 
home  to  nest." 

"Why,  do  you  boys  know  Mrs.  Cam 
eron?"  asked  the  banker  with  some  sur 
prise.  ' '  I  did  n't  know  she  was  in  your  set. 

"Ho!  Ho!  and  so  you  know  the  widow, 
too?  L.  No.  384  of  the  Cameron  series, 
eh,  Jimmy?"  said  Harris. 


The  Fraud  of  Men  9  j 

The  woman,  holding  to  a  rather  slender 
young  fellow,  perhaps  thirty-five  years  old, 
dark  and  serious,  who  was  watchfully  bend 
ing  over  her,  to  catch  her  chatter,  passed  the 
club  window,  and  disappeared  in  the  cover 
of  darkness  that  surrounded  the  arc  light. 
She  was  a  woman  who,  even  on  close  in 
spection,  showed  little  age,  though  instinct 
would  have  told  a  man — where  a  dozen 
other  things  would  have  told  a  woman  —  that 
she  was  thirty- three  or  thirty-four  years  old. 
As  she  scurried  under  the  light,  she  seemed 
to  cling  to  the  man's  figure,  and  tripped, 
rather  than  walked,  along.  One  would 
have  said  that  she  was  very  happy  as  she 
passed,  or  that  she  could  simulate  happiness 
excellently. 

"Me?  Oh  yes,  I  knew  Mrs.  Cameron 
when  she  was  a  little  girl,"  said  the  elder 
man.  "She  came  from  my  town  —  down 
in  Baxter.  Say,  how  is  she  making  it  here? 
I  have  n't  seen  her  for  going  on  two  years 
now  —  two  years  next  December,  I  think," 
mused  the  banker.  The  two  young  fellows 
looked  quizzically  at  the  old  man,  and  then 


94  The  Real  Issue 

at  each  other.  Then  Harris  shook  his  head 
and  the  short,  fat,  little  man  nodded  back. 
They  were  satisfied  that  the  old  man  was 
telling  the  truth. 

"Well,"  began  Jimmy,  "she  wasn't  cut 
out  for  a  vagabond,  and  she  has  n't  been 
making  it  very  well,  I  guess." 

"What  's  the  matter?"  said  the  old  man, 
who  did  not  grasp  the  young  fellow's 
meaning. 

"Well,  Mr.  Martin,  if  you  care  to  kno\v, 
it's  nothing  more  unusual  than  wolves," 
replied  Harris,  as  he  swung  his  feet  over  the 
arm  of  the  chair;  "just  plain,  old-fashioned 
wolves.  But  I  'm  mighty  glad  she  is  going 
to  break  for  shelter.  I  'm  mighty  glad — for 
her,"  Harris  added  in  broken  sentences. 
"Who  's  the  fellow,  Jimmy?"  he  asked  a 
moment  later.  By  that  time  the  slow  pro 
cesses  of  the  elder  man's  mind  had  caught 
the  idea  that  the  woman  under  discussion 
was  to  be  married,  and  he  broke  in  without 
giving  the  young  man  a  chance  to  answer 
his  friend's  question. 

"Well,    well,    well,    so    Mrs.    Cameron  is 


The  Fraud  of  Men  95 

going  to  get  married  again!  Her  of  all 
women!" 

"Byers,"put  in  Jimmy  in  answer  to  Har 
ris's  question,  as  Martin  rubbed  his  chin,  and 
pulled  up  a  chair  to  sit  down  and  get  the 
idea  firmly  fixed  in  his  mind. 

"Going  to  get  married!"  continued  the 
old  banker,  thinking  aloud.  "Well,  if  that 
don't  beat  all!  Why,  boys,  I  've  knowed 
her  since  she  was  a  little  slip  of  a  girl 
—  could  n't  a  been  more  'n  ten  years  old  — 
when  they  moved  to  Baxter.  I  see  her 
graduate  at  the  high  school  —  handed  her 
the  diplomy,  as  president  of  the  board,  my 
self.  And  she  's  going  to  get  married  again. 
Well,  that  gets  me.  I  went  to  her  wedding 
with  old  Cameron.  She  was  the  oldest  of 
seven  children,  four  of  'em  girls,  and  Mrs. 
Griggs  was  mighty  glad  to  get  Mattie  off 
her  hands,  though  she  was  n't  more'n 
eighteen  when  she  was  married ;  but  every 
one  thought  she  done  so  well,  getting  old 
Cameron,  and  his  fine  house  that  he  'd  built 
her  —  and  all.  But  I  'd  'a'  thought  she  'd  'a' 
got  enough  of  marrying  when  she  got  done 


96  The  Real  Issue 

with  old  Cameron.  If  ever  a  woman  lived 
ten  years  in  hell,  that  woman  did.  And  such 
a  nice,  little  woman,  too.  Seemed  like  she 
tried  ever  so  hard  to  make  it  pleasant ;  done 
all  her  own  work,  flaxed  around  and  fixed 
up  the  house,  putting  little  odds  and  ends 
here  and  there,  keeping  up  with  the  Chautau- 
quy,  and  having  the  young  folks  around 
her,  and  being  just  the  world  and  all  to 
them  babies  of  her'n.  Used  to  hear  her 
singing  at  her  work  summer  mornings  before 
I  got  up.  (We  lived  next  door  neighbors.) 
She  used  to  know  all  the  sick  old  ladies  in 
town,  and  take  'em  jell  and  preserves  and 
elderberry  wine,  and  go  around  and  tell 
everybody  to  run  in  and  see  'em,  before  any 
one  else  in  town  had  any  idee  they  was  sick. 
She  was  that  way,  clean  to  the  last,  and 
hardly  anybody  knowed  they  was  anything 
wrong,  until  she  filed  her  suit.  And  we 
did  n't  know  it,  ourselves,  living  right  there, 
until  two  years  before,  when  old  Cameron 
come  home  and  chased  her  out  of  the  house, 
one  cold  winter  night,  and  she  had  to  come 
over  to  our  house  or  freeze.  Many  and 


The  Fraud  of  Men  97 

many's  the  time  she  's  stayed  out  all  night 
of  summers,  when  he  'd  come  home  full  and 
ugly,  rather  than  let  the  neighbors  know. 
Well,  I  must  tell  mother  she  's  a-going  to 
get  married  again." 

The  old  man  sat  thinking  silently,  and 
the  two  younger  men  evidently  did  not  care 
to  speak.  Each  was  wondering  if  the  other 
had  not  heard  that  story  before,  and  each 
was  thinking  hard  things  of  the  other,  if  he 
had.  Harris  remembered  the  picture  of  a 
petite  figure  in  a  red  silk  wrapper,  sitting  be 
fore  the  fire  in  a  flat,  popping  corn,  and 
looking  around  to  say  in  a  soft  voice,  while 
the  fire-light  made  her  face  radiant:  "Tom, 
I  used  to  wear  this  wrapper,  hundreds  of 
years  ago,  when  I  popped  corn  for  my  own 
little  girls."  Something  tightened  in  his 
throat  then,  and  there  were  tears  in  his 
eyes  when  he  had  replied  that  evening. 
So  when  the  story  came  up  again,  he  only 
beat  his  stick  on  his  shoe-tip  and  said 
nothing.  It  was  Martin  who  broke  the 
silence.  He  resumed  where  he  had  run 
out  of  words. 


98  The  Real  Issue 

"Old  man  Cameron,  he  war  n't  so  mean 
with  men,  that  way.  Take  him  in  the  bank, 
and  though  he  was  in  the  opposition  con 
cern,  I  can  say  that  I  never  heard  a  man  say 
an  unkind  thing  of  him,  and  that  's  a  good 
deal  for  a  banker.  My  wife  says  Mrs.  Cam 
eron  told  her  that  there  was  times  when 
he  would  be  awful  sorry,  and  promise  to  do 
better,  and  be  as  rational  as  you  or  me. 
But  he  got  them  jealous  spells  and  was  a 
regular  devil,  she  said.  Used  to  beat  her,  I 
guess,  though  she  never  said  so.  One  time, 
—  so  she  told  my  wife  —  after  one  of  his  tan 
trums —  that  was  pretty  near  the  end  —  he 
had  went  down  to  Cincinnati,  and  while  he 
was  gone,  she  made  up  her  mind  to  leave 
him.  When  he  came  home,  he  wanted  to 
be  sugar  and  spice,  and  he  seemed  so  peni 
tent.  She  had  n't  been  more  than  civil  to 
him,  for  a  year  before,  and  the  bad  streak  he 
took  made  her  see  things  could  n't  go  on 
that  way.  Well,  sir,  when  he  was  down  to 
Cincinnati  he  turned  in  and  bought  her  a 
seal-skin  sacque,  and  a  new  set  of  solid  silver 
knives  and  forks  and  spoons,  and  any 


The  Fraud  of  Men  99 

amount  of  little  trinkets  to  wear.  It  was 
the  first  time  he  had  ever  done  anything  of 
the  kind,  and  when  she  was  getting  supper 
for  him,  she  told  my  wife,  he  set  the  table 
with  the  new  things,  and  put  the  trinkets  at 
her  place,  and  the  sacque  in  her  chair,  and 
then  called  her  to  see  it.  She  come  in  and 
shook  her  head,  and  turned  to  the  kitchen- 
door  without  a  word.  And  she  told  my 
wife  if  she  'd  'a'  tried  to  said  a  word,  she 
would  'a'  burst  out  crying. 

"It  was  hard  for  her,  but  she  did  what 
was  for  the  best,  I  guess.  'T  would  n't  'a' 
been  six  months  before  old  man  Cameron 
would  'a'  been  up  to  his  old  tricks  again. 
She  knew  that  then,  just  as  well  as  I  know 
it  now.  But  he  was  so  big  and  strong,  and 
I  suppose  he  was  tender,  too,  when  he  felt 
like  it.  But  that  was  a  mighty  brave  thing 
to  do,  and  I  should  n't  wonder  if  she  cried 
that  night,  for  the  first  time  in  years  — 
he  'd  hardened  her  that  way,  you  know, 
for  so  long  before." 

There  was  no  one  with  a  voice  to  speak, 
when  the  old  man  paused,  so  he  sighed  and 


ioo  The  Real  Issue 

continued,  "And  now  she  's  going  to  get 
married,  eh?  Who  's  the  fellow?" 

Morrison  was  the  first  to  speak:  "A  man 
named  Byers,  of  Denver,"  he  said.  "Did 
you  know  her  after  she  came  down  here,  Mr. 
Martin?" 

"Only  a  little;  she  was  trying  to  learn  to 
be  a  trained  nurse  or  something;  used  to 
see  her  at  the  theatre,  with  young  fellows 
from  the  club.  She  come  back  to  Baxter, 
now  and  then.  Wife  saw  her  there,  and  said 
she  appeared  to  be  cheerful.  All  the  old 
ladies  were  tickled  to  death  to  see  her. 
Made  up  a  tea-party  for  her,  about  six 
months  ago,  when  my  wife  and  she  hap 
pened  to  be  back  together  at  the  same 
time,  and  my  wife  said  they,  every  one  of 
them  old  people — made  over  her  like  she 
was  their  own  child,  and  she  did  seem  to  be 
so  happy  and  all  —  to  be  back  with  'em. 
And  so  you  fellows  say  she  tried  to  be  a 
vagabond  down  here  —  poor  little  woman! 
And  her  just  yearning  for  a  home  and  some 
one  to  do  for,  all  the  time!  What  about  the 
wolves,  Harris?  Tell  me,"  said  the  elder 


The  Fraud  of  Men  101 

man  as  he  lighted  a  cigar  and  looked  grimly 
at  the  charred  match  before  throwing  it 
away. 

"There  isn't  much  to  tell,  I  guess.  If 
every  man  would  only  tell  what  he  knows, 
himself,  there  would  be  blame  little.  But  as 
every  man  tells  what  he  thinks  a  lot  of  other 
fellows  know  —  it's  the  old  story,  and  a 
good  deal  too  long.  The  chief  trouble  with 
wolves,  you  know,  is  their  noise." 

"It  occurs  to  me,  Harris,"  said  young 
Jimmy  Morrison  with  a  knowing  look  side 
ways,  "that  you  are  getting  mighty  high- 
minded  all  of  a  sudden.  I  say  it  's  a  shame 
about  young  Byers,  of  Denver.  He  seems 
to  be  a  pretty  decent  fellow." 

"Has  a  little  money,  hasn't  he?" 
chipped  in  Harris. 

"Sheep-buyer  for  a  packing  house,  I  be 
lieve.  We  had  some  dealing  with  him," 
said  the  banker,  as  he  puffed,  and  put  his 
hands  back  of  his  head  as  a  pillow  for  a  mo 
ment. 

"Something  like  that,"  said  Jimmy. 
"Anyway,  he  looks  like  an  honest  fellow. 


IO2  The  Real  Issue 

Somebody  ought  to  tell  him  about  Cameron. 
It  's  tough  to  see  him  going  into  this  thing  — 
like  an  ox  to  the  slaughter."  The  speaker 
evidently  thought  he  had  said  something 
funny,  for  he  laughed  a  dry,  mean,  little 
laugh.  It  may  have  irritated  Harris,  for  he 
turned  on  the  younger  man  quickly  and  said  : 

"Oh,  you  do,  do  you?  Well,  Jimmy 
Morrison,  maybe  you  would  like  to  have  the 
same  man,  who  tells  what  he  has  heard  of 
this  woman,  tell  the  same  thing  to  the  future 
Mrs.  Morrison,  a  few  weeks  before  the  cards 
are  out."  He,  too,  laughed  derisively,  and 
as  he  sat  looking  at  his  smirking  companion, 
who  was  clearly  proud  rather  than  ashamed 
at  the  thrust,  Martin  arose,  evidently 
aroused  from  a  reverie.  It  was  in  a  soft, 
deep  voice,  a  trifle  husky  —  such  as  old  men 
not  used  to  scenes  use  on  occasions  —  that 
he  replied : 

"Do  you  boys  know  you  are  talking  of  a 
human  being?  This  business  that  is  so 
funny  to  you,  it  is  all  of  that  woman's 
life!  It's  your  farce,  maybe;  but,  great 
God,  it  's  her — her  —  her  tragedy!" 


The  Fraud  of  Men  103 

After  an  abashed  silence  Martin  walked 
slowly  away  from  the  two  friends.  Each 
one  thought,  for  an  instant,  of  a  face  that  he 
remembered,  lighted  up  by  the  warm  glow 
of  the  grate  fire.  Each  knew  the  story  as 
the  old  man  had  told  it.  Each  thought  of 
the  way  he  had  heard  it.  It  was  fully  a 
minute  after  the  old  man  walked  away  with 
his  hands  behind  him,  when  Harris  spoke: 

"Funny  thing,  this  life,  ain't  it?"  he  said. 

"Yes,  damned  funny  —  the  more  you 
know  of  it,"  said  Morrison  as  he  arose. 
"Is  n't  it  getting  about  'that  time?'  Whose 
turn  is  it  to  buy  the  old  Falernian?" 


The  Reading  of  the  Riddle 

"Dear,  was  it  really  you  and  I? 

In  truth  the   riddle's  ill  to  read, 
So  many  are   the  deaths  we  die 
Before  we  can  be  dead  indeed." 

—  W,  E.  Henley. 

THE  town  of  Willow  Creek  lies  at  the 
junction  of  a  rivulet  of  that  name, 
with  the  Big  Muddy.  But  the  people  of 
that  community  being  born  scoffers,  have 
changed  the  name  of  the  Big  Muddy  in  com 
mon  parlance  to  "Mud  Crick,"  and,  trans 
formed  by  the  alchemy  of  popular  deprecia 
tion,  the  name  of  the  town  itself  has  shriv 
eled  into  "Wilier  Crick."  It  might  have 
been  something  of  a  town,  as  towns  go  in 
the  West,  but  instead  of  pulling  with  his 
neighbors  for  the  success  of  the  town,  each  of 
its  founders  spent  his  time  making  fun  of  the 
pretensions  of  others.  When  there  was  talk 
on  the  part  of  "old  man"  Mead,  the  prime- 
104 


The  Reading  of  the  Riddle        105 

val  postmaster,  of  securing  the  government 
land  office  for  Willow  Creek,  the  Indian 
trader,  and  the  saloon  keeper,  and  the  black 
smith,  made  great  sport  of  the  old  man's 
ambition.  A  few  years  later,  when  civiliza 
tion  had  crowded  in  with  a  hotel,  a  lumber 
yard,  a  new  saloon,  and  a  barber  shop,  some 
one  spoke  of  starting  a  newspaper;  but  the 
laugh  that  went  up  from  Willow  Creek  was 
the  only  unanimity  that  greeted  Editor  Mc- 
Cray  when  his  back  was  turned.  But  the 
newspaper  came,  and  so  did  the  people,  and 
they  kept  coming,  until,  when  the  "boom  " 
of  the  later  eighties  struck  Kansas,  it  found 
Willow  Creek  with  about  two  thousand 
scoffing  inhabitants.  The  effect  of  the 
"boom"  on  the  town  was  strange  indeed. 
It  was  a  contagious  mental  disease,  and 
when  it  attacked  the  two  thousand  suf 
ferers  from  chronic  melancholia,  its  effect 
was  like  the  confusion  of  tongues.  Every 
man  had  his  own  scheme  for  the  salvation 
of  Willow  Creek,  and  every  other  man 
jeered  at  him.  One  man  wanted  to  start  a 
woolen  mill  on  "Mud  Crick,"  and  after  the 


106  The  Real  Issue 

walls  were  up  and  the  machinery  in,  Willow 
Creek  split  its  sides  with  laughter,  when  the 
enterprising  man  found  there  was  no  wool 
in  Lincoln  county.  An  enthusiastic  man, 
who  bored  and  struck  salt,  was  the  town  joke, 
when  he  discovered  that  the  railroad  rates 
were  so  high,  that  he  could  not  evaporate 
and  ship  the  salt  at  a  profit.  An  iron 
foundry,  a  deserted  college,  a  clock  factory, 
and  a  flour  mill  to-day  stand  as  monu 
ments  to  the  energy  of  the  "boom, ' '  and  the 
potent  influence  of  the  organized  scoffers. 

But,  in  one  way  or  another,  the  "boom" 
seemed  to  bring  wealth  to  Willow  Creek. 
And  with  wealth,  came  some  attempts  at 
the  organization  of  polite  society.  There 
were  innumerable  young  real  estate  agents, 
young  doctors,  young  lawyers,  and  clerks, 
all  from  the  East,  in  the  village ;  and  these, 
with  the  daughters  of  the  early  settlers  and 
such  friends  as  they  chanced  to  make  in  the 
high  school,  constituted  the  aristocracy  of 
the  town.  It  was  a  vulnerable  aristocracy, 
and  the  scoffers  made  sad  havoc  with  it. 
Fathers,  who  had  carried  their  sweethearts  — 


The  Reading  of  the  Riddle        107 

now  their  wives  —  across  the  Big  Muddy  on 
their  backs  to  and  from  the  dances  at  Jack 
Armstrong's  ranch,  were  too  common,  and 
too  voluble  in  Willow  Creek,  to  permit  the 
daughters  and  sons  of  the  town  to  assume 
very  much  dignity.  If  a  family  put  on  many 
airs,  the  members  of  a  dozen  families  in 
town  would  tell  newcomers  how  the  would- 
be  fashionables  had  received  "aid"  from  the 
committee,  in  the  grasshopper  year. 

It  was  said  of  Flora  McCray,  who  went 
to  boarding  school  and  came  back,  timid, 
retiring,  and  distinctly  unsocial,  that,  "She 
need  n't  hold  herself  so  high.  If  her  father 
would  only  pay  back  the  money  he  stole 
in  the  school  land  fraud  she  would  be  as 
common  as  anybody."  But  the  girl  paid 
no  heed  to  these  rumors,  if  she  heard  them. 
She  quietly  filled  her  small  sphere,  bounded 
on  one  side  by  her  meek-voiced  mother  and 
her  busy  father,  on  another  side  by  her 
church  and  her  "church  social,"  on  a  third 
side  by  a  very  brief  glimpse  of  a  very  big 
world  and  her  memory  of  it,  and  on  the 
fourth  side  by  occasional  day  dreams  and 


io8  The  Real  Issue 

night  thoughts,  pretty  much  the  same  as 
those  which  come  to  any  young  girl  of  good 
health,  good  spirits,  and  twenty-one  years, 
who  has  never  had  a  sweetheart. 

After  the  "boom"  had  passed,  Willow 
Creek  saw  the  dress  suits  that  had  many 
and  many  a  time  danced  to  the  sound  of 
revelry  by  night  in  the  opera  house  flit 
away.  Flora  McCray  probably  knew  noth 
ing  of  the  appearance,  nor  of  the  departure 
of  these  formal  trappings.  They  seldom 
appeared  at  the  church  socials,  and  when 
they  were  gone  from  the  gatherings 
of  politer  society,  the  young  woman  did 
not  miss  them  in  her  humble  walk.  She 
had  never  attended  a  dance;  not  that  she 
was  too  strong  in  her  piety  to  have  gone, 
but  because  no  one  had  ever  thought  of 
asking  her.  Dancing,  during  the  days  of 
the  "boom"  was  the  chief,  if  not  the  only 
social  diversion,  in  what  was  known  as  the 
best  society  of  the  place.  So  it  was  said 
that  the  McCray  girl  "never  went  out." 

As  the  reaction,  caused  by  the  decadence 
of  real  estate  prices  set  in,  Willow  Creek 


The  Reading  of  the  Riddle        109 

became  poorer.  As  the  young  men,  who 
paid  for  the  orchestras,  and  halls,  and  flowers, 
gradually  left  town,  the  young  women,  who 
formerly  frequented  receptions,  parties,  and 
.balls,  were  seen  more  and  more  often  at  the 
"church  socials."  After  a  two-years  in 
effectual  struggle  Willow  Creek  gave  it  up ; 
the  town  could  no  longer  support  two 
branches  of  society,  and  the  "church  crowd" 
and  the  "dance  crowd"  merged  into  one. 
The  union  was  a  very  sensible  one,  yet 
every  one  laughed  at  it  and  said  that  the 
church  people  were  getting  giddy,  or  that 
'  'the  aristocracy  had  made  a  fine  'comedown' 
from  its  high  horse.  Of  a  bevy  of  girls  who 
gave  broom-brigade  drills  and  milk-maid 
conventions,  and  who  conducted  "toe  so 
cials,"  for  the  benefit  of  the  library  or  the 
temperance  society,  Flora  McCray  made 
one.  But  it  was  merely  a  numerical  one. 
As  a  leader,  a  planner,  and  a  schemer,  she 
\vas  less  than  an  integer. 

She  had  no  intimates,  and  unless  a  crowd 
was  present,  or  numbers  were  needed,  no  one 
thought  of  her.  She  went  everywhere  with 


lio  The  Real  Issue 

her  parents.  Young  men  were  scarce,  and 
other  girls,  more  designing  than  she,  never 
thought  of  wasting  masculine  material  on 
her. 

When  it  was  announced  that  the  entire 
social  body  of  Willow  Creek  was  going  out  to 
Robinson's  fora  "taffy  pull,"  one  Saturday 
night,  the  rest  of  Willow  Creek  laughed. 
The  town  people  sneered  at  the  young 
women  who  had  planned  the  party,  and  in 
timated  that  the  night  ride  out  to  Robin 
son's  and  back  was  an  heroic  measure;  and 
they  laughed  at  old  man  Robinson  and  his 
family  for  tolerating  people  who  would  snub 
them  if  they  came  to  town,  and  lastly  they 
laughed  at  the  young  men  who  would  have 
to  pay  the  livery  bills. 

Saturday  morning,  John  Howard,  Mr. 
McCray's  partner  in  the  stock  business, 
came  up  from  the  farm  on  Dry  Creek,  and 
after  going  over  some  details  of  business, 
McCray  asked  his  partner  to  Sunday  dinner, 
as  was  his  custom,  when  the  young  man  was 
in  town,  and  the  invitation  was  accepted. 
During  the  "boom"  Howard  had  made 


The  Reading  of  the  Riddle        1 1 1 

money.  He  had  mingled  with  what  is 
known  as  the  "swell  set"  of  Willow  Creek, 
and  though  not  a  favorite  at  the  flood  of 
the  "boom,"  the  very  face  that  he  had  the 
social  instinct,  made  him  a  necessity  in  so 
ciety  at  its  ebb. 

Soon  after  leaving  his  partner's  office,  he 
had  learned  of  the  plans  for  the  "taffy  pull," 
that  evening.  He  was  urged  to  go,  and 
finding  that  all  the  "rigs"  were  full,  and 
that  all  the  girls  of  his  "set"  were  provided 
with  escorts,  in  a  moment  of  despairing  in 
spiration  the  young  man  sent  a  note  to  his 
partner's  daughter,  asking  for  "the  pleasure 
of  her  company."  His  invitation  was  ac 
cepted,  and  late  that  afternoon,  Flora  Mc- 
Cray  stepped  into  a  buggy  with  the  first 
beau  she  had  ever  had,  and  headed  a  long 
procession  for  Robinson's. 

******** 

Some  one  had  stopped  the  clock  that 
night,  and  the  young  women,  putting  on 
their  wraps,  guessed  that  it  was  nearly  mid 
night,  when  the  "taffy  pull"  at  Robinson's 
broke  up.  As  Flora  McCray  sat  alone  in 


H2  The  Real  Issue 

the  Robinson  parlor  waiting  to  hear  the 
grinding  of  wheels  across  the  gravelled  path 
that  would  herald  her  escort's  buggy,  she 
went  over  the  evening's  impressions  in  her 
mind.  She  decided  that  it  had  been  a 
very  pleasant  evening.  She  had  never 
before  found  herself  surrounded  by  the 
masterful  attentions  of  a  young  man.  She 
was  pleased  with  his  business-like  devotion 
to  her  coffee-cup,  and  was  amused,  yet  a 
little  startled,  when  he  piled  a  monument  of 
cake  upon  her  plate  and  called  on  every  one 
to  pass  things  down  his  way  as  Miss  McCray 
was  very  hungry.  It  was  a  new  sensation 
to  find  herself  a  part  of  the  merriment. 
Heretofore,  she  had  been  only  a  spectator 
at  such  scenes.  And  now  that  it  was  all 
over,  she  felt  herself  still  a  spectator,  and  in 
the  mood  of  a  spectator,  she  smiled  depre- 
catingly  as  she  thought  of  the  courteous  at 
tentions  of  her  father's  friend.  And  thus, 
with  a  mind  isolated  from  the  vain  world  by 
such  reflections,  she  started  with  Howard  on 
their  homeward  ride. 

It  was  a  blustering,    cloudy  night.      The 


The  Reading  of  the  Riddle        1 1 7 

O  «-> 

freakish  wind  scurried  across  fields,  pirou 
etted  around  corners,  scampered  through 
hedges,  and  impishly  pulled  the  dry,  scrag- 
gly  grass  of  the  roadside,  till  the  bald,  old 
earth  winced  and  shivered  with  pain.  How 
ard  was  the  last  to  leave,  and  as  he  got  into 
the  buggy,  after  closing  the  last  gate,  the 
rollicking  wind  tugged  viciously  at  a  cor 
ner  of  the  lap-robe,  like  a  playful  puppy. 
The  girl  shivered  as  Howard  leaned  over  to 
tuck  the  robe  more  snugly  around  her.  She 
slipped  gently  from  her  attitude  of  passive 
placidity  to  one  of  unconscious,  yet  active 
interest,  in  what  appeared  to  be  the  strange, 
new  face  her  companion  seemed  to  wear  in 
the  darkness.  At  first  they  chatted  on 
about  the  commonplaces  of  Willow  Creek. 
Flora  McCray  tried  again  and  again  to  asso 
ciate  her  recollection  of  the  familiar  face  of 
her  father's  partner  with  the  smooth-shaven 
face  so  near  her  in  the  night.  Her  repeated 
efforts  were  tantalizing.  Little  by  little, 
did  the  wizard  of  the  night  weave  her  fan 
cies,  and  then  herself  into  the  woof  of  his 
uncanny  spell.  Not  only  was  she  with  a 


114  The  Real  Issue 

stranger,  but  she  was  herself  a  stranger  to 
herself.  Nor  was  the  spirit  of  the  dark  con 
tented  till  he  had  sold  the  man,  also,  into  the 
slavery  of  the  shadow  world.  Then  the 
grim  old  wizard  beckoned  the  wind  with  a 
hand  of  cloud,  and  bade  it  plash  little  gusts 
of  mist  into  the  two  unreal,  spell-bound  faces. 
It  may  have  been  the  cold.  It  may  have 
been  the  utter  lonesomeness  of  the  night 
that  drew  her  close  to  him,  but  she  came, 
and  was  not  afraid. 

Again  he  reached  over  her,  and  again 
tucked  the  wraps  closer  than  ever  about  her, 
and  the  fumbling  touches  of  his  hands 
awakened  the  girl's  new  self  to  a  delightful 
realization  of  the  fact  that  a  new  being  had 
come  to  her  out  of  the  darkness.  She  came 
even  closer  to  this  new-found  presence,  and 
almost  cuddled  against  the  man's  great  coat, 
and  snuggled  under  his  arm,  that  rested 
loosely  upon  the  cushions  behind  her.  Their 
talk,  which  had  been  growing  more  and  more 
serious,  gradually  stopped.  The  horses 
jogged  on  in  the  night,  and  the  rattle  of  the 
harness  and  the  wheels  beat  a  broken  tattoo, 


The  Reading  of  the  Riddle        1 1 5 

muffled  at  times  by  the  complaining  wind, 
while  the  wizard  of  the  dark  worked  his 
grotesque  enchantment. 

"Are  you  cold  —  dear?"  the  young  man 
asked,  when  he  felt  her  come  close  to  him. 
His  words  and  his  tone  startled  the  girl  and 
almost  broke  the  spell.  Flora  McCray  strug 
gled  a  moment  with  the  Girl  in  the  Dark, 
and  shuddered  in  despair  as  a  voice  from  the 
Girl,  who  felt  a  strong  arm  quiet  her,  an 
swered:  "A  little." 

Scoff  your  noisy  guffaws  with  the  flapping 
curtains,  whistle  your  sneers  in  the  dead 
weed  stalks,  and  mumble  your  pious  warn 
ings  among  the  telegraph  wires  by  the 
roadside,  wind  of  the  Willow  Creek  prairies; 
you  cannot  break  the  spell.  Throw  yourself 
upon  the  hill-side,  roll  over  and  over  in  your 
convulsions  of  derision.  The  charm  you 
would  dissolve  is  only  sweetened,  when  the 
sorcerer  of  the  night  turns  your  antics  into 
uncouth  mysteries,  and  your  cachinations 
into  worldless  passion  songs. 

*         *         *         *         * 
As  the  lights  of  the  town  came  in  sight 


1 1 6  The  Real  Issue 

the  young  couple  grew  silent.  A  turn  in 
the  road  brought  the  buggy  under  the  white 
glare  of  an  electric  light.  Flora  McCray 
was  sitting  upright  with  her  hands  folded 
under  the  robe,  and  Howard,  with  the  whip 
and  the  lines  in  his  hands,  was  consciously 
clucking  at  the  horses.  Each  saw  the 
other's  face  clearly,  and  as  they  crossed  the 
circle  of  light  the  man  spoke : 

"It  must  be  two  o'clock." 

The  girl  did  not  reply,  and  the  young 
man  leaned  over  to  look  out  of  the  buggy, 
as  if  to  scan  the  clouds.  The  prospect  did 
not  altogether  satisfy  him  and  he  said : 

"It  's  going  to  be  a  pretty  gloomy  Sun 
day,  I  guess." 

As  Howard  put  out  his  arms  to  help  her 
from  the  buggy  she  barely  touched  his  out 
stretched  hand,  and  her  decided  shyness 
surprised  him.  In  a  bewilderment  of  con 
fusion  he  said: 

"You  have  made  me  very  happy  to-night 
—  Miss  McCray.  Shall  I  speak  to  your 
father  when  I  come  out  to  dinner  to-mor 
row?" 


The  Reading  of  the  Riddle       117 

The  girl  did  not  reply,  but  went  up  the 
steps  and  into  the  house,  while  the  young 
man  climbed  into  his  buggy,  and  beat  time 
with  the  whip  to  the  tune  he  was  whistling, 
as  he  gave  the  horses  the  rein  for  the  stable. 

Flora  McCray  locked  the  door  and  slipped 
the  bolt  as  quietly  as  she  could.  She  blew 
.out  the  light  in  the  parlor  and  stole  noise 
lessly  upstairs,  avoiding,  as  was  her  wont  in 
using  the  stairs  at  night,  the  creaky  step  at 
the  landing,  that  always  wakened  her  mother. 
After  entering  her  room  she  turned  up  the 
light  and  at  once  began  taking  off  her  outer 
wraps.  This  prim,  shy,  old-fashioned  girl 
had,  from  her  earliest  childhood,  observed 
habits  of  precise  neatness.  This  evening, 
she  went  about  her  room,  hanging  up  every 
garment  that  belonged  on  a  hook,  and  fold 
ing  away  every  one  that  belonged  elsewhere. 
To  outward  view,  she  was  a  placid,  method 
ical,  emotionless  being  —  perhaps  she,  her 
self,  did  not  notice  that  she  avoided  facing 
the  mirror  as  she  took  down  her  hair  —  yet 
strong  feelings  were  working  within  her. 
Just  before  going  to  bed  she  started  to  put 


1 1 8  The  Real  Issue 

away  her  hat.  She  picked  it  up.  The  vel 
vet  and  the  ribbon  seemed  crushed.  She 
put  out  her  hand  to  smooth  them.  A  hot 
flush  of  recollection  swept  over  her,  and  she 
put  the  hat  down.  She  did  not  look  at  it 
again,  but  blew  out  the  light  and  went  to 
bed  with  her  face  turned  from  the  guilty  re 
minder.  And  all  night  long  Flora  McCray 
lashed  herself  for  the  folly  of  the  Girl  in  the 
Dark.  And  all  night  long  Flora  McCray 
scourged  her  very  self  for  a  very  impossible 
self,  blaming  her  very  modest  self  for  an 
hour  that  she  could  not  explain,  and  putting 
her  flushed  face  under  the  pillow  when  she 
remembered  for  what  it  had  been  upturned 
so  eagerly  in  the  dark.  In  her  abject  re 
morse,  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  the  only 
guilty  one  —  the  man  was  only  a  means,  not 
an  agent  in  the  fancied  transgression.  As 
she  remembered  it,  she  had  made  all  the  ad 
vances;  he  had  only  been  kind  and  good  to 
her. 

The  next  morning,  all  of  Willow  Creek 
knew  that  John  Howard  had  taken  Flora 
McCray  to  Robinson's  the  night  before,  and 


The  Reading  of  the  Riddle        119 

that  he  was  going  to  eat  Sunday  dinner  with 
the  McCrays  that  afternoon.  But  the  town, 
as  usual,  was  divided.  One  half  claimed 
that  the  McCrays  had  to  have  all  of  How 
ard's  money,  or  they  would  fail;  and  the 
other  half  held  that  John  Howard  was  going 
to  marry  Flora  McCray  to  keep  the  old 
man  from  prosecuting  him  for  running  off 
mortgaged  cattle  and  reporting  them  as 
dead.  And  in  the  whole  town  no  one  could 
have  been  so  thoroughly  surprised  as  was 
Mr.  McCray,  when  his  daughter  said  to  him, 
"Father,  if  Mr.  Howard  says  anything  to 
you  about  me,  you  will  tell  him  —  that  —  I 
cannot  —  marry  him." 

McCray  and  his  daughter  were  walking 
along  the  narrow,  rough  sidewalk  toward 
the  church,  when  these  words  were  spoken. 
The  mother  had  dropped  back,  and  was  not 
in  hearing  distance.  McCray  could  only  find 
voice  for  a  few  exclamatory  "whys"  and 
"whats"  before  his  daughter  had  said  firmly, 
"You  will  be  sure,  won't  you,  Father?"  and 
was  waiting  for  her  mother  to  catch  up  with 
them.  After  the  service,  the  women,  Flora 


I2O  The  Real  Issue 

and  her  mother  among  them,  hurried  home 
to  attend  to  the  feast  of  the  day,  and  the 
men,  after  lounging  around  the  postoffice, 
sauntered  home,  newspapers  in  hand.  With 
this  crowd,  came  McCray  and  his  young 
partner.  For  a  while  in  their  walk  they 
talked  very  low  and  earnestly,  and  then 
seemed  to  cheer  up  and  be  concerned  only 
with  the  commonplaces. 

At  the  dinner  table  the  young  people  met 
for  the  first  time  that  day.  Flora  McCray 
felt  keenly,  and  with  a  twinge  of  anguish, 
that  the  young  man's  cordial  suavity  in 
greeting  her  was  only  inspired  by  gratitude 
for  her  generosity  in  releasing  him  from  any 
obligation. 

She  met  his  eye,  and  thought  she  read 
there  a  recollection  of  everything  that  had 
been.  Then,  as  she  looked  down  and  away, 
all  the  sweetness  and  unreality  of  the  night's 
ride  was  made  real  to  her.  A  turn  of  his 
head  brought  his  profile  into  relief,  and  she 
thought  of  how  handsome  he  had  looked 
out  in  the  night,  and  of  how  tender  he  had 
been  with  her.  While  the  young  man 


The  Reading  of  the  Riddle        121 

chatted  on  idly  with  her  father,  the  girl  was 
silent,  as  she  always  was,  when  there  were 
visitors  at  the  house. 

After  dinner  the  men  went  into  the  parlor, 
where  they  smoked  and  talked  alone,  while 
the  women  put  away  the  best  china,  afraid 
to  trust  it  to  the  "hired  girl."  Finally, 
young  Howard  and  Mr.  McCray  thought  that 
•the  evening  mail  would  be  in  and  distrib 
uted.  They  put  on  their  overcoats  and 
were  in  the  hall,  when  the  elder  man  opened 
the  dining-room  door  and  said: 

"Mother,  John  thinks  it  's  time  to  go, 
and  I  am  going  to  walk  down  to  the  post- 
office  with  him." 

When  the  front  door  closed  Mrs.  McCray 
said : 

"What  a  nice,  young  man  John  Howard 
is,  is  n't  he?" 

"Oh,  yes,  he  is  nice  enough,  I  guess," 
answered  the  daughter,  rising  to  go  to  her 
room. 

As  she  neared  the  top  of  the  stairs,  Flora 
McCray  quickened  her  pace.  She  ran 
through  the  upper  hall.  Once  in  her  room, 


122  The  Real  Issue 

she  went  straight  to  the  dresser,  where  the 
rumpled  hat  was  still  lying.  The  lonely 
girl  stood  before  it  a  moment,  and  then, 
stooping  awkwardly,  touched  the  crumpled 
velvet  with  pursed,  uncertain  lips,  as  one 
ashamed.  It  may  have  been  the  dusk  in 
the  room,  or  it  may  have  been  the  ghost  of 
an  odor  from  a  cigar,  that  transported  this 
unschooled  heart  back  to  the  darkness,  and 
the  joy  of  a  first  caress.  But  dusk,  or  ghost, 
or  something,  came  to  this  shy  girl  there,  and 
nerved  her  whole  being,  so  that  she  was  no 
longer  awkward,  no  longer  uncertain,  nor  in 
any  wise  ashamed.  The  pretty  velvet  toy 
she  made  her  shrine,  and  in  her  worship  she 
kissed  it,  rubbed  it  with  her  burning  cheek, 
and  buried  her  face  in  its  sacred  folds. 

In  Willow  Creek  where  they  scoff  and 
higgle  over  sordid  things,  in  Willow  Creek 
the  hard,  the  arid,  the  barren,  they  say  —  no 
matter  what  —  but  in  and  out  of  the  nar 
row  ways,  turning  the  sharp  corners  with 
the  rest,  with  tired  feet,  and  timid,  unsure 
hands,  there  goes  a  woman  whose  woman 
hood  came  to  her  as  a  dream  —  in  the  night. 


The  Chief  Clerk's  Christmas 

HAWKINS,  the  chief  clerk,  was  a  grim 
man.  He  had  little  to  say;  he  did 
not  even  patronize  the  elevator  boy,  and 
he  never  talked  with  the  office  girls  about  his 
necktie.  He  did  not  speak  at  all,  except  to 
give  orders  to  the  clerks,  who  bent  over  their 
desks  with  conspicuous  industry,  when  he 
was  around,  and  gossiped  about  him  when 
he  was  gone.  It  was  admitted  by  them  all 
that  he  was  smart;  there  was  a  suspicion 
among  the  younger  men  that  he  was  wicked, 
and  among  the  girls,  who  nagged  at  the 
typewriters,  there  was  a  hope  that  he  was 
both;  so  they  talked  about  his  meek-voiced 
stenographer,  and  said  that  Hawkins  was  a 
beast.  The  former  chief  clerk  had  been 
very  gay,  and  had  danced  around  the  office 
singing  the  refrain  of  topical  songs,  pretend 
ing  to  look  over  the  clerks'  shoulders  to 
123 


124 

see  what  they  were  about.  But  Hawkins 
stayed  in  his  office  and  pressed  buttons. 
His  industry  was  proverbial  all  over  the 
building,  and  the  janitor  and  the  office  boy 
had  a  song  about  it,  that  they  sang  down  in 
the  basement  to  the  tune  of  a  darkey 
break-down,  "Sho'tnun  Braid."  It  ran: 

"What's   Hawkins   do-un'? 

Sittun  at  'is  desk. 
What's   Hawkins  do-un'? 
Gawd  knows  best.'1 

Neither  the  janitor  nor  the  office  boy  was 
a  poet,  but  the  recitative  voiced  a  popular 
inquiry,  and  within  a  week  after  it  was 
evolved,  it  was  everybody's  property.  Once, 
in  the  summer,  Hawkins  was  not  in  his 
room.  He  was  absent  three  days,  and  all  in 
the  building  wondered.  He  came  back  and 
said  nothing;  but  the  general  auditor  told 
his  chief  clerk,  who  told  a  subordinate,  who 
flew  with  the  news  into  Hawkins's  depart 
ment,  that  the  chief  clerk  of  the  freight  and 
traffic  manager  had  been  home  to  attend  his 
mother's  funeral.  The  men  tried  to  show  him 
that  they  were  sorry  for  him,  and  the  girls 


The  Chief  Clerk's  Christmas      125 

watched  him  more  closely  than  ever  to  see 
how  he  was  ''taking  it."  Consequently, 
they  still  thought  him  a  beast.  The  office 
boy  saw  a  photograph  of  a  little  old  woman 
in  a  cap,  under  a  row  of  pigeon  holes  on 
his  desk,  and  before  night  every  one  in  the 
office  had  made  a  trip  to  see  what  she  looked 
like.  The  women  thought  he  did  n't  take 
after  her  a  bit,  and  the  men,  having  satisfied 
their  curiosity,  had  no  opinion  at  all. 

Nobody  knew  anything  about  Hawkins 
before  he  came  to  the  chief  clerk's  desk. 
The  under  clerks  could  never  have  found 
out  the  facts  about  him,  which  are  that  he 
once  lived  in  a  little  country  town,  called 
Willow  Creek,  and  that  his  father  was  as 
grim  as  he,  and  had  died  when  Hawkins  was 
young.  Hawkins  and  his  mother  and  elder 
sister  had  lived  together;  Hawkins,  taciturn 
and  sullen  ;  his  mother  as  tender  as  he  would 
allow;  and  his  sister  petulant,  but  patient  — 
in  the  long  run.  He  had  left  home, 
barely  grunting  good-bye  to  the  household, 
and  his  mother  made  her  home  with  his 
sister,  who  soon  married.  He  went  home 


126  The  Real  Issue 

each  Christmas,  at  first,  on  business;  then 
because  his  mother,  who  wrote  to  him  with 
religious  regularity,  had  begged  him  to 
come,  and  finally,  as  he  grew  older  and 
came  to  know  himself  and  the  people  better, 
because  he  liked  to  go.  One  Christmas 
night  he  unbosomed  himself  to  his  mother; 
told  her  his  plans  and  all  that  he  hoped  to 
be  and  to  do,  and  the  tears  came  to  her 
eyes.  He  kissed  her  when  he  left  that  time 
and  wrote  long  letters  to  her.  She  was  his 
only  confidant.  He  said  much  in  the  letters 
that  he  would  not  have  spoken  for  worlds. 
God  only  knows  how  desolate  he  was  when 
she  died. 

As  Christmas  time  drew  near,  Hawkins 
was  habitually  planning  to  go  home,  and 
then  suddenly  remembering  —  and  wonder 
ing  what  he  would  do.  People  who  said 
he  was  a  firm  man  and  never  changed  his 
decision  should  have  seen  his  heart  as  the 
holidays  approached.  To-day  he  was  de 
cided  to  go ;  on  the  morrow  he  was  trying 
to  find  excuses  for  staying  in  town.  One 
day,  as  he  was  sitting  at  his  desk,  gazing  va- 


The  Chief  Clerk's  Christmas      127 

cantly  for  a  moment  at  the  photograph,  his 
stenographer  saw  his  face  flush ;  that  even 
ing  he  told  the  general  manager  he  would  be 
off  Christmas,  and  Hawkins  was  a  man 
who  thought  twice,  but  spoke  once.  He 
had  decided  to  do  something. 

He  took  Christmas  dinner  with  his  sister 
and  her  family  in  Willow  Creek,  and  they 
'tried  to  turn  the  subject  to  his  mother,  but 
he  cut  them,  and  closed  up  like  a  shell. 
After  dinner  he  said  he  was  going  for  a 
walk.  The  sister's  husband  politely  offered 
to  go  with  him,  but  it  was  plain  that  Haw 
kins  wished  to  be  alone. 

It  was  a  clear  day  —  almost  like  spring. 
The  ground  was  soft,  and  tufts  of  blue  grass 
came  up  between  the  stones  of  the  side 
walks  and  touched  his  feet.  He  walked  to 
the  village  greenhouse,  and  succeeded  in 
buying  some  flowers.  He  did  it  as  though 
he  always  bought  flowers  Christmas  day. 
Then  he  struck  up  the  country  road  towards 
the  cemetery.  His  face  was  hard  and  sour. 
He  felt  that  the  people  were  looking  at  him, 
and  the  hatred  of  their  curiosity  all  but 


128  The  Real  Issue 

showed  itself  in  his  features,  as  he  glared  at 
the  questioning  sexton,  who  unlocked  the 
iron  gate.  He  walked  rapidly  through,  and 
did  not  look  back. 

When  he  reached  his  mother's  tomb,  he 
stopped  and  gazed  anxiously  in  every  direc 
tion.  Seeing  no  one,  he  took  off  the  wrap 
pings  and  placed  the  flowers  awkwardly  on 
the  grave.  It  was  a  strange,  unsatisfy 
ing  thing  to  do,  and  he  wondered  why  he 
had  felt  an  uncontrollable  desire  to  do  it. 
It  was  the  first  tender  thing  he  had  ever 
planned  and  executed,  and  as  its  accom 
plishment  brought  only  disappointment,  it 
made  him  feel  lonelier  than  ever  in  the 
world.  He  sat  down  on  the  seamy,  new- 
laid  patches  of  grass-sod  over  the  grave,  and 
bit  the  skin  of  his  upper  lip ;  he  saw  the 
sexton  approaching,  and  rose  suddenly. 
Hawkins  tried  to  avoid  the  old  man,  but  he 
could  not.  The  sexton  asked  if  everything 
was  all  right,  and  was  just  launching  out 
into  sympathetic  condolence,  when  Hawkins 
handed  him  a  bill,  saying,  "Is  this  enough?" 
and  turned  and  left  him. 


The  Chief  Clerk's  Christmas      129 

He  was  at  his  desk  the  next  day,  and 
from  the  further  end  of  the  hall  his  tittering 
clerks  heard  the  office  boy  call  to  the  janitor 
who  was  polishing  the  banister  on  the  next 
floor: 

"What's  Hawkins  do-un', 
Settun  at  'is  desk?" 

And  the  janitor  answered : 

*' 

"What's  Hawkins  do-un'? 
Gawd  knows  best." 


The  Story  of  a  Grave 

THERE  is  a  place  in  the  Great  Ameri 
can  Desert  where  green  grass  grows. 
At  the  head  of  an  estuary  of  the  great  dry 
sea,  where  a  long  arm  of  white  alkali  runs 
up  among  the  foothills  of  the  mountains, 
stands  an  inviting  tavern.  It  is  upon  the 
hillside.  Just  below  it,  the  garden  hose 
and  the  landscape  gardener,  with  water 
carried  in  troughs  from  the  mountains,  have 
wrought  a  miracle  of  green.  Trees,  blue- 
grass,  flowers,  wax  strong  and  beautiful  in 
the  artificial  oasis.  Children  and  young  men 
and  maidens  romp  on  the  verdant  mat, 
spread  at  the  point  of  the  estuary,  and  upon 
the  hillside  a  score  of  languid  guests  sit  in 
the  healing  sun,  and  look  down  upon  the 
picture,  and  out  into  the  endless  miles  of 
white  sand  that  stretch  billowy  and  fantastic 
into  the  blue  of  the  horizon. 
130 


The  Story  of  a  Grave  131 

Most  of  these  idlers  on  the  broad  piazza. 
of  the  tavern  are  invalids.  It  is  a  place  of 
invalids.  Here  hundreds  of  wretched  bodies 
are  dragged  by  a  tragic  love  of  life.  Here 
scores  of  souls  watch  other  souls  flicker  and 
die  out,  and  still  hope  on  and  wait,  while  the 
oil  of  life  burns  smudgy  and  low.  There 
are  those  whom  the  sunshine  and  the  dry 
clear  air  win  back  to  life.  But  the  dead  are 
there.  On  the  broad  veranda  —  a  very 
citadel  of  life  —  the  dead  are  embattled, 
fighting  with  time.  It  is  a  most  hideous 
battle,  and  all  so  hushed  and  sepulchral  are 
its  manoeuvres,  that  Life  takes  no  heed  of 
the  empty  pageant. 

Armed  in  such  a  combat  sat  Hawkins,  the 
chief  clerk,  a  grim  man,  dark,  pallid,  sinister. 
Of  what,  out  in  the  world  of  life,  Hawkins 
had  been  chief  clerk,  it  does  not  matter  now. 
He  had  been  a  busy  man,  firm,  taciturn, 
self-contained,  repellent.  He  sat  now  at 
his  post  in  the  battle,  sneering  at  the  folly 
of  those  about  him  who  were  trying  to  wrest 
a  few  mortal  moments  from  eternity.  It 
did  not  occur  to  him  that  he  was  one  of  the 


132  The  Real  Issue 

soldiers  in  the   fight,  yet  by  them   he  was 
classed  among  the  hopeless. 

For  a  long  time,  as  days  go,  Hawkins  had 
been  sitting  in  this  sentry  box,  when  his 
captain  —  the  doctor  —  ordered  him  into  the 
infantry,  and  told  him  to  march  for  dear  life. 
Hawkins  left  the  guards  upon  the  terrace 
with  loathing.  He  had  a  gnawing  contempt 
for  their  silly  belief,  that  they  were  ward 
ing  off  the  enemy ;  that  they  were  conquer 
ing  death ;  and  as  the  grim  man  set  out  upon 
his  daily  walk  down  the  hill,  and  around  the 
beach  of  the  great,  shimmering,  dead  sea  of 
sand  and  dust,  he  speculated  diabolically  on 
which  of  the  enthusiasts  would  be  in  the 
hospital  when  he  should  return.  During 
the  first  week  of  his  marching  orders,  he 
made  exactly  the  same  journey  every  day. 
He  noticed  everything  along  his  path.  He 
was  interested  in  nothing.  In  his  mind  the 
objects  he  saw  were  catalogued,  but  never 
referred  to  by  his  memory.  There  was  a 
huge  bluff,  a  railroad  bridge,  a  quarry,  a 
barbed  wire  fence,  enclosing  a  grave,  a  mud 
house,  a  herder,  some  sheep,  a  steep  hill,  a 


The  Story  of  a  Grave  133 

water  trough,  a  cross  road,  and  a  pine  grove, 
on  the  hill  over  which  he  came  back  to  his 
starting  point.  None  of  these  objects  was 
dignified  by  a  prominence  in  his  mind.  One 
day,  attracted  by  the  most  unimportant 
detail  in  the  landscape,  Hawkins  started  to 
walk  a  few  rods  from  his  path,  that  he  might 
examine  more  closely  the  grave,  fenced  in 
with  barbed  wire  to  keep  the  ghoulish  desert 
beasts  away.  A  second  thought  made  the 
digression  from  the  path  the  line  of  an 
ellipse,  and  he  followed  his  course  without 
veering. 

There  were  days  when  Hawkins  spoke  to 
none  of  the  hotel  guests,  and  the  lack  of 
interest  in  the  place  weighed  heavily  upon 
him.  As  he  sat  for  hours  after  his  walks, 
gazing  between  the  hills  that  penned  out 
the  desert,  the  spot  where  the  grave  dotted 
the  surface  of  the  plain  kept  drawing  his 
eyes  to  it,  in  an  annoying  manner.  He  tried 
turning  his  back  to  the  spot,  but  in  his 
fancy  the  dot  appeared  on  the  picture  of 
the  scene,  and  he  grew  black  with  anger. 
Then  he  went  to  his  room  and  forgot  all 


134  The  Real  Issue 

about  it  until  the  next  day  on  his  walk,  or 
after  it. 

As  he  took  his  lonely  walk  at  the  end  of 
that  fortnight,  the  grave  began  to  irritate 
him.  It  aroused  a  certain  curiosity  within 
him,  which  was  very  distasteful.  It  was  his 
pride  that  nothing  outside  of  himself  and 
his  personal  environment,  interested  him. 
The  mound  in  some  way  pushed  through  his 
armour  of  selfishness,  and  he  was  pricked 
with  what  seemed  a  senseless  desire  to  see 
it  close  at  hand.  He  fought  the  whim,  but 
a  dozen  times  he  was  compelled  to  turn 
back  in  his  path,  so  strongly  did  he  seem 
drawn  to  the  spot.  There  was  nothing  else 
to  occupy  his  mind  and  one  night,  after  his 
return  from  a  walk,  raging  at  his  folly,  the 
grave  began  to  haunt  his  wakeful  night- 
fancies.  The  next  afternoon  he  walked  over 
to  the  enclosure,  thinking  that  he  would  be 
no  longer  disturbed  by  the  thing  if  he  ex 
amined  it  closely. 

Hawkins  saw  only  an  adult's  grave  with 
a  cactus  upon  it.  At  the  head  was  a 
wooden  board.  At  the  foot  was  a  broad 


The  Story  of  a  Grave  135 

peg.  The  barbed  wire  was  torn  away  at 
one  end  —  perhaps  by  some  stray  animal, 
wandering  in  the  night.  Hawkins  did  not 
approach  nearer  than  a  rod  from  the  fence, 
and  he  turned  quickly  as  though  he  had 
overcome  his  weakness,  when  he  had  gath 
ered  these  details  in  his  mind. 

The  next  day  he  came  closer,  and  the  day 
following,  after  a  night  in  which  he  was 
kept  awake,  frenzied  because  of  a  gnawing 
ache  to  pick  the  cactus  root  out  of  the  dead 
man's  side,  Hawkins  came  to  the  fence  and 
leaned  upon  the  post,  looking  back  toward 
the  hotel  to  see  if  the  group  on  the  veran 
da  could  see  him.  He  did  not  touch  the 
cactus,  and  not  until  he  had  straightened  up 
to  go  did  he  so  much  as  glance  at  the 
mound.  He  read  the  name  on  the  head 
board —  and  hurried  away  with  fear  dogging 
his  steps.  He  looked  behind  by  sheer  force 
of  will.  It  was  the  one  name  in  the  world 
that  Hawkins  loved  to  hate.  With  it  came 
the  recollection  of  the  woman  whom  the 
grim  man  was  proud  that  he  had  forgotten. 

At  the  road  around  the  hill  he  checked 


136  The  Real  Issue 

his  nervous  gait  and  walked  slowly  back 
to  the  hotel.  But  all  the  way  up  the  hill 
side  the  headboard  kept  rising  before  him 
with  the  word  "Zain"  over  the  word 
"Thweke." 

Hawkins  sat  in  his  chair  on  the  veranda 
when  he  had  returned,  and  looked  over  the 
white  plain,  glistening  in  the  sun.  The  blot 
on  the  white  floor  in  the  distance  seemed 
magnified  in  his  eyes.  He  fancied  he  could 
distinguish  the  headboard  from  the  fence. 
Then  he  began  to  fight  with  the  spell.  He 
reasoned  that  it  was  an  accident,  and  it 
came  over  him  with  a  chill,  that  he  had  been 
drawn  to  the  place  by  an  irresistible  force. 
At  this  conclusion  he  smiled  sardonically 
and  lighted  a  cigar. 

He  believed  he  had  conquered  the  hallu 
cination  by  giving  it  full  rein.  Then  he 
began  to  hate  his  old  enemy.  Hawkins  had 
not  known  that  the  man  was  dead  until  that 
day.  He  mused  pleasurably  upon  the 
cactus.  The  doctor,  seeing  Hawkins  in  the 
sunset  air  with  a  cigar,  swore  at  him,  and 
the  grim  man  went  in  doors.  He  was  proud 


The  Story  of  a  Grave  137 

to  be  alive.      His  pride  amounted  almost  to 
a  thrill. 

Hawkins  went  to  sleep  early  that  night. 
When  the  lights  in  the  hotel  were  extin 
guished  he  wakened  from  a  dream  about 
figures  and  business,  and  felt  that  there  was 
something  important  on  his  mind.  Then 
he  remembered  the  discovery  on  the  head- 
"  board.  He  trailed  over  his  treasure  with 
the  harrow  of  his  hate.  There  seemed  to 
him  to  be  a  certain  compensation  in  it,  a 
kind  of  gruesome  poetic  justice.  He  won 
dered  if  there  could  be  such  a  thing  as  that. 
If  not,  he  asked  himself,  why  had  he  been 
drawn  to  that  lonely  mound  of  sand  and 
stones  and  desert  weeds?  What,  except 
some  force  outside  himself,  he  reasoned, 
had  torn  him  away  from  his  habits,  and  put 
that  headboard  before  his  eyes?  The  head 
board  seemed  to  be  pictured  in  the  shadows 
on  the  wall.  What  had  brought  him  to  it, 
he  wondered?  And  then  he  dared  not  face 
an  uncanny  question  that  was  all  but  forming 
itself  in  his  mind.  He  tried  to  shake  it  off. 
He  mentally  smiled  at  himself  for  being 


138  The  Real  Issue 

afraid  of  the  supernatural.  He  tried  to 
think  of  something  else;  he  began  counting, 
finally  it  came.  A  sentence  formed  in  his 
mind,  "Was  it  the  dead  man's  spirit?" 

When  he  aroused  himself  his  mouth  was 
dry,  and  he  was  wet  with  perspiration. 
Hawkins'  normal  mind  then  took  control 
of  his  fancy  and  his  hate  for  the  conquered 
foe  burned  fiercely.  The  woman  kept 
coming  into  his  malignant  speculations. 
He  wondered  if  she  had  taken  the  man's 
name.  He  was  curious  to  know  if  she  had 
come  with  his  enemy  into  the  desert  where 
he  died.  Hawkins  pictured  them  together 
on  the  terrace.  Then  hi-s  sick  fancy  painted 
them  in  the  very  room  where  he  was  lying. 
For  a  moment  he  was  in  mental  hell.  A 
footfall  startled  him.  He  sprang  to  the 
floor  to  ring  the  bell  and  to  ascertain  if  his  im 
aginings  had  any  foundation  in  fact.  When 
the  boy  came  Hawkins  asked  for  icewater, 
and  upon  getting  it  sipped  it,  as  he  stood 
looking  out  at  the  quiet  stars  and  the  moon, 
and  listening  to  the  sheep-bells,  and  to  the 
dogs  barking  out  on  the  floor  of  the  desert, 


The  Story  of  a  Grave  139 

beyond  the  grave.  This  soothed  him,  and 
he  slept. 

The  day  following  that  night,  and  for 
many  days  thereafter,  Hawkins  stood  gazing 
at  the  ugly  sand  heap  in  its  barbed  wire 
prison,  exulting  in  his  heart  at  the  dead 
man's  desolation.  The  moments  he  spent 
.  thus  were  almost  happy  ones  for  the  grim 
man.  His  fancy  made  morbid  pictures;  and 
the  figures  of  the  man  and  woman  danced 
before  his  eyes  in  a  thousand  horrid  day 
dreams.  Once  he  kicked  the  headboard,  and 
sneered  at  himself  for  so  doing.  Then 
Hawkins  saw  how  like  a  cur  he  was. 

After  that  there  were  three  in  his  circle 
of  hate. 

One  day,  loathing  himself,  he  began  to 
wonder  what  had  ever  induced  the  woman 
to  promise  to  love  and  to  honor  him.  He  re 
called  cowardly  words  he  had  spoken  to  her. 
Revelations  of  his  own  cruelty  and  meanness 
were  made  to  him,  and  ghostly  memories 
that  he  had  strangled  years  before,  came 
flitting  back.  He  remembered  a  white  face 
looking  up  to  him,  and  a  thick  voice  begging 


140  The  Real  Issue 

him  to  be  good  to  her;  and  then  with  a 
shuddering  blush  he  recalled  the  jealous 
taunt,  with  which  he  had  jeered  a  reply. 
He  saved  his  most  blighting  maledictions 
for  himself.  A  cancer  of  remorse  began 
rotting  his  heart. 

He  was  oppressed  with  a  sense  of  having 
done  a  terrible  wrong.  The  face  of  the 
woman  whom  he  had  forgotten,  rose  and 
floated  on  his  stagnant  fancies.  Dialogues, 
that  he  had  crowded  into  what  seemed  to 
him  oblivion  came  trooping  back,  and 
whispered  themselves  into  his  ear.  In  each 
of  these  pictures  and  voices  he  saw  his  own 
selfishness.  Hawkins  began  to  know  himself 
as  he  was  known.  A  love  that  he  had  cursed 
and  trampled  out  with  his  physical  heel  in  a 
fit  of  rage,  began  to  glow  and  warm  his  being. 
A  faint  blaze  of  sentiment  fluttered  in  his 
heart,  and  one  night,  looking  from  his  bed 
at  the  moon,  Hawkins  wondered  where  in 
the  world  it  shone  on  her  who  was  once  his 
wife.  Then  he  got  up  and  pulled  down  the 
window  curtain. 

A  miracle  was  wrought  on  the  day  that  a 


The  Story  of  a  Grave  141 

shriveled  tear  trembled  in  his  eye.  He 
went  to  the  grave,  and  stood  a  longer  time 
than  usual  after  that.  He  left  the  place 
with  a  sigh,  and  walked  slowly  with  his 
eyes  upon  the  ground.  He  walked  slowly, 
partly  from  choice,  partly  because  his 
former  gait  sapped  his  strength.  On  the 
veranda  they  were  counting  the  weeks  left 
him. 

He  now  went  to  the  mound  every  day  for 
company.  To  those  whom  he  met  in  the 
routine  of  his  physical  life,  Hawkins  pre 
served  his  cold  exterior.  His  habit  of  aus 
terity  was  not  broken.  Yet  strange  things 
were  working  within  his  breast.  He  had 
lived  his  life  alone,  and  no  one  outside  him 
self  could  know  of  the  softening  of  his  heart. 
The  visits  to  the  grave  grew  necessary 
to  his  happiness.  For  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  Hawkins  felt  as  desolate  as  he  really 
was.  He  visited  the  grave,  as  a  man  of  or 
dinary  temperament  would  call  upon  a  com 
rade.  When  his  strength  permitted  a  trip 
every  other  day,  only,  he  sat  in  his  room 
looking  out  between  the  hills  at  the  plain, 


142  The  Real  Issue 

and  at  the  fascinating  dot  upon  the  white 
stretch  of  sand  and  alkali. 

It  was  at  these  times  that  Hawkins  began 
to  try  to  recall  the  possible  good  qualities  of 
his  dead  enemy.  Hawkins  remembered  how 
he  had  condemned  the  man  out  of  hand, 
when  his  name  was  first  brought  up,  because 
Thweke  wrote  a  copy-book  hand.  Haw 
kins  remembered  also,  that,  he  had  sneered 
at  the  man  on  account  of  a  certain  curl  of 
the  moustache;  and  that  the  fellow  had 
incurred  a  husbandly  hate,  by  knowing  how 
to  play  the  piano.  Remembering  these 
prejudices,  Hawkins  tried  to  make  some  en 
tries  on  the  other  side  of  the  account. 

As  the  Shadow  flitted  nearer  and  nearer 
to  the  grim  man,  now  confined  to  his  barren 
room  more  closely  than  before,  he  began  to 
lose  the  horror  he  once  had  felt  at  what  he 
fancied  might  be  the  presence  of  the  dead. 
One  day  he  found  himself  curiously  listening 
for  some  token  from  the  dead  man  in  the 
grave.  His  mood  was  not  one  of  horror, 
but  of  longing.  He  reasoned  that  his 
strange  finding  of  this  grave,  the  inexplicable 


The  Story  of  a  Grave  143 

power  that  drew  him  against  his  will  and 
against  his  nature  to  the  lonely  spot,  and 
the  influence  which  it  had  wrought  upon  his 
life  indicated  the  presence  of  some  outside 
power.  He  built  up  a  theory  of  hypnot 
ism  from  disembodied  spirits,  and  sat  watch 
ing  for  a  signal  to  verify  through  his  mater 
ial  senses,  the  existence  of  the  supernatural 
force,  with  which  his  spirit  seemed  to  have 
been  communing.  In  this  frame  of  mind  he 
forgot  the  wasting  of  the  flesh.  He  sat  by 
his  window,  overlooking  the  desert,  and 
mused  by  the  hour  upon  life  and  the  coming 
of  the  end.  His  whole  being  was  softened 
by  the  approaching  dissolution  of  his  body. 
He  longed  for  some  sign  that  would  tell 
m  that  he  had  fellowship  —  real  and  palpa 
ble — with  the  spirit  of  the  man  in  the  deserted 
grave.  But  the  sign  did  not  come.  He 
traced  false  signs  to  their  natural  causes, 
and  was  sad.  The  habit  of  a  lifetime,  as  a 
scoffer,  strangled  credulity,  even  though  it 
was  the  child  of  hope.  So  Hawkins  sat  in 
the  silence,  listening  and  waiting  for  the 
greater  silence. 


144  The  Real  Issue 

There  came  a  time  when  he  rallied  —  when 
he  left  the  window  for  the  veranda.  Then 
it  was  that  a  great  yearning  came  to  his 
heart  to  go  and  lie  prone  upon  the  grave 
and  to  be  as  simple  as  a  child  in  grief.  He 
could  not  explain  this  yearning;  he  did  not 
try  to  analyze  it.  He  felt  someway  that  it 
was  a  thing  the  woman  would  have  done, 
and  the  desire  became  a  master  passion.  It 
seemed  cold  to  him  on  the  porch;  but  out 
on  the  desert  the  sun  shone  gaily  and  seduc 
tively.  Day  after  day,  he  walked  the  length 
of  the  veranda.  He  seemed  to  be  gaining 
strength.  There  was  a  day  when  he  walked 
the  entire  distance  around  the  hotel  twice, 
without  sitting  or  resting.  It  was  a  day  of 
triumph.  That  night  he  planned  his  jour 
ney  to  the  fence  and  the  mound  between 
the  foothills. 

His  mental  strain  brought  a  slight  relapse 
in  his  malady.  He  did  not  notice  it  the 
next  morning.  He  kept  his  plans  to  himself. 
That  afternoon  he  slipped  away.  Slowly, 
slowly,  he  crept  down  the  terraces.  He  sat 
down  often  by  the  wayside.  A  notion  that  he 


The  Story  of  a  Grave  145 

was  making  a  pilgrimage  that  she — Hawkins 
only  thought  of  the  woman  as  "she,"  now 
—  would  have  him  make,  warmed  some 
thing  in  his  grim  heart,  not  unlike  a  tender 
ness.  He  was  very  weak,  and  his  emotions 
were  loose.  He  took  every  tortured  step 
as  a  penance,  and  his  throat  tightened 
with  a  boyish  joy,  as  he  thought  he  was 
doing  something  the  woman  would  approve. 
Once  he  fainted  when  he  sat  down  by  a 
stone.  When  he  returned  to  consciousness  he 
hurried  on  in  a  dazed,  fumbling  sort  of 
way.  He  felt  then  that  it  would  be  his 
last  visit  to  the  grave,  but  he  was  not  sad. 
He  was  only  glad  that  he  had  come  in  Her 
r  ne.  Pride  was  purged  from  his  flesh. 
His  heart  was  that  of  a  little  child.  He 
uttered  foolish,  little  prayers  that  were  bar 
gains  with  God  for  strength  to  reach  his  goal. 
When  he  reached  it,  he  crawled  into  the  wire 
enclosure,  weak  and  panting.  There  they 
found  Hawkins  at  the  close  of  day,  grim, 
repellent  of  feature,  apart  from  his  kind, 
alone  in  his  very  death.  Men  said  it  was  a 
fitting  end  for  him. 


The  Home-coming  of  Colonel 
Hucks 

\GENERATION  ago,  a  wagon  covered 
with  white  canvas  turned  to  the  right 
on  the  California  road,  and  took  a  northerly 
course  toward  a  prairie  stream  that  nestled 
just  under  a  long,  low  bluff.  When  the  white 
pilgrim,  jolting  over  the  rough,  unbroken 
ground,  through  the  tall  "blue  stem"  grass, 
reached  a  broad  bend  in  the  stream,  it 
stopped.  A  man  and  a  woman  emerged 
from  under  the  canvas,  and  stood  for  a  mo 
ment  facing  the  wild,  green  meadow,  and  the 
distant  hills.  The  man  was  young,  lithe, 
and  graceful,  but  despite  his  boyish  figure 
the  woman  felt  his  unconscious  strength,  as 
he  put  his  arm  about  her  waist.  She  was 
aglow  with  health ;  her  fine,  strong,  intelli 
gent  eyes  burned  with  hope,  and  her  firm 
jaw  was  good  to  behold.  They  stood  gaz- 
146 


Home-coming  of  Colonel  Hucks     147 

ing  at  the  virgin  field  a  moment  in  silence. 
There  were  tears  in  the  woman's  eyes,  as  she 
looked  up  after  the  kiss  and  said : 

"And  this  is  the  end  of  our  wedding 
journey;  and  —  and  —  the  honey-moon  — 
the  only  one  we  can  ever  have  in  all  the 
world  —  is  over. 

The  horses,  moving  uneasily  in  their 
sweaty  harness,  cut  short  the  man's  reply. 
When  he  returned,  his  wife  was  getting  the 
cooking  utensils  from  under  the  wagon,  and 
life — stern,  troublous — had  begun  for  them. 

It  was  thus  that  young  Colonel  William 
Hucks  brought  his  wife  to  Kansas. 

They  were  young,  strong,  hearty  people, 
and  they  conquered  the  wilderness.  A 
home  sprang  up  in  the  elbow  of  the  stream. 
In  the  fall,  long  rows  of  corn  shocks  trailed 
what  had  been  the  meadow.  In  the  sum 
mer  the  field  stood  horse-high  with  corn. 
From  the  bluff,  as  the  years  flew  by,  the 
spectator  might  see  the  checker-board  of  the 
farm,  clean  cut,  well  kept,  smiling  in  the 
sun.  Little  children  frolicked  in  the  king 
row,  and  hurried  to  school  down  the  green 


148  The  Real  Issue 

lines  of  the  lanes  where  the  hedges  grow. 
Once,  a  slow  procession,  headed  by  a  spring 
wagon  with  a  little  black  box  in  it,  might 
have  been  seen  filing  between  the  rows  of  the 
half-grown  poplar  trees  and  out  across  the 
brown,  stubble-covered  prairie,  to  the  deso 
late  hill  and  the  graveyard.  Now,  neighbors 
from  miles  around  may  be  heard  coming  in 
rattling  wagons  across  vale  and  plain,  laden 
with  tin  presents;  after  which  the  little  home 
is  seen  ablaze  with  lights,  while  the  fiddle 
vies  with  the  mirth  of  the  rollicking  party, 
dancing  with  the  wanton  echoes  on  the  bluff 
across  the  stream. 

There  were  years  when  the  light  in  the 
kitchen  burned  far  into  the  night,  when  two 
heads  bent  over  the  table,  figuring  to  make 
ends  meet.  In  these  years  the  girlish  figure 
became  bent,  and  the  light  faded  in  the  wo 
man's  eyes,  while  the  lithe  figure  of  the  man 
was  gnarled  by  the  rigors  of  the  struggle. 
There  were  days  —  not  years,  thank  God  — 
when  lips  forgot  their  tenderness;  and,  as 
fate  tugged  fiercely  at  the  curbed  bit,  there 
were  times,  when  souls  rebelled,  and  cried 


Home-coming  of  Colonel  Hacks     149 

out  in  bitterness  and  despair,  at  the  rough 
ness  of  the  path. 

In  this  wise  went  Colonel  William  Hucks 
and  his  wife  through  youth  into  maturity, 
and  in  this  wise  they  faced  towards  the 
sunset. 

He  was  tall,  with  a  stoop ;  grizzled, 
brawny,  perhaps  uncouth  in  mien.  She  was 
stout,  unshapely,  rugged;  yet  her  face  was 
kind  and  motherly.  There  was  a  boyish 
twinkle  left  in  her  husband's  eyes,  and  a 
quaint,  quizzing,  one-sided  smile  often 
stumbled  across  his  care-furrowed  counte 
nance.  As  the  years  passed,  Mrs.  Hucks 
noticed  that  her  husband's  foot  fell  heavily 
when  he  walked  by  her  side,  and  the  pang 
she  felt  when  she  first  observed  his  plodding 
step  was  too  deep  for  tears.  It  was  in  these 
days,  that  the  minds  of  the  Huckses  uncon 
sciously  reverted  to  old  times.  It  became 
their  wont,  in  these  latter  days,  to  sit  in  the 
silent  house,  whence  the  children  had  gone 
out  to  try  issue  with  the  world,  and,  of 
evenings,  to  talk  of  the  old  faces  and  of  the 
old  places,  in  the  home  of  their  youth. 


150  The  Real  Issue 

Theirs  had  been  a  pinched  and  busy  life. 
They  had  never  returned  to  visit  their  old 
Ohio  home.  The  Colonel's  father  and 
mother  were  gone.  His  wife's  relatives 
were  not  there.  Yet  each  felt  the  longing 
to  go  back.  For  years  they  had  talked  of 
the  charms  of  the  home  of  their  childhood. 
Their  children  had  been  brought  up  to 
believe  that  the  place  was  little  less  than 
heaven.  The  Kansas  grass  seemed  short, 
and  barren  of  beauty  to  them,  beside  the 
picture  of  the  luxury  of  Ohio's  fields.  For 
them  the  Kansas  streams  did  not  ripple  and 
dimple  so  merrily  in  the  sun  as  the  Ohio 
brooks,  that  romped  through  dewy  pastures, 
in  their  memories.  The  bleak  Kansas  plain, 
in  winter  and  in  fall,  seemed  to  the  Colonel 
and  his  wife  to  be  ugly  and  gaunt,  when 
they  remembered  the  brow  of  the  hill  under 
which  their  first  kiss  was  shaded  from  the 
moon,  while  the  world  grew  dim  under  a 
sleigh  that  bounded  over  the  turnpike.  The 
old  people  did  not  give  voice  to  their  mus 
ings.  But  in  the  woman's  heart  there 


Home-coming  of  Colonel  Hucks     151 

gnawed  a  yearning  for  the  beauty  of  the  old 
scenes.      It  was  almost  a  physical  hunger. 

After  their  last  child,  a  girl,  had  married, 
and  had  gone  down  the  lane  toward  the 
lights  of  the  village,  Mrs.  Hucks  began  to 
watch  with  a  greedy  eye  the  dollars  mount 
toward  a  substantial  bank-account.  She 
hoped  that  she  and  her  husband  might 
afford  a  holiday. 

Last  year,  Providence  blessed  the  Huckses 
with  plenty.  It  was  the  woman,  who  re 
vived  the  friendship  of  youth  in  her  hus 
band's  cousin,  who  lives  in  the  old  township 
in  Ohio.  It  was  Mrs.  Hucks,  who  secured 
from  that  cousin  an  invitation  to  spend  a 
few  weeks  in  the  Ohio  homestead.  It  was 
Mrs.  Hucks,  again,  who  made  her  husband 
happy  by  putting  him  into  a  tailor's  suit  — 
the  first  he  had  bought  since  his  wedding  — 
for  the  great  occasion.  Colonel  Hucks 
needed  no  persuasion  to  take  the  trip.  In 
deed,  it  was  his  wife's  economy  which  had 
kept  him  from  being  a  spendthrift,  and  from 
borrowing  money  with  which  to  go,  on  a 
dozen  different  occasions. 


l$1  The  Real  Issue 

The  day  which  Colonel  and  Mrs.  William 
Hucks  set  apart  for  starting  upon  their  jour 
ney  was  one  of  those  perfect  Kansas  days  in 
early  October.  The  rain  had  washed  the 
summer's  dust  from  the  air,  clearing  it,  and 
stenciling  the  lights  and  shades  very  sharply. 
The  woods  along  the  little  stream,  which 
flowed  through  the  farm,  had  not  been 
greener  at  any  time  during  the  season.  The 
second  crop  of  grass  on  the  hillside  almost 
sheened  in  vividness.  The  yellow  of  the 
stubble  in  the  grain  fields  was  all  but  a  glit 
tering  golden.  The  sky  was  a  deep,  glorious 
blue,  and  the  big,  downy  clouds  which  lum 
bered  lazily  here  and  there  in  the  depths  of 
it,  appeared  near  and  palpable. 

As  Mrs.  Hucks  "did  up"  the  breakfast 
dishes  for  the  last  time  before  leaving  for 
the  town  to  take  the  cars,  she  began  to  feel 
that  the  old  house  would  be  lonesome  with 
out  her.  The  silence  that  was  about  to 
come,  seemed  to  her  to  be  seeping  in,  and  it 
made  her  feel  creepy.  In  her  fancy  she 
petted  the  furniture  as  she  "set  it  to 
rights,"  saying  mentally,  that  it  would  be  a 


Home-coming  of  Colonel  Hucks     153 

long  time  before  the  house  would  have  her 
care  again.  To  Mrs.  Hucks  every  bit  of 
furniture  brought  up  its  separate  recollec 
tion,  and  there  was  a  hatchet-scarred  chair 
in  the  kitchen  which  had  come  with  her  in 
the  wagon  from  Ohio.  Mrs.  Hucks  felt 
that  she  could  not  leave  that  chair.  All  the 
while  she  was  singing  softly,  as  she  went 
about  her  simple  tasks.  Her  husband  was 
puttering  around  the  barnyard,  with  the  dog 
under  his  feet.  .  He  was  repeating  for  the 
twentieth  time,  the  instructions  to  a  neigh 
bor  about  the  care  of  the  stock,  when  it 
occurred  to  him  to  go  into  the  house  and 
dress.  After  this  was  accomplished,  the  old 
couple  paused  outside  the  front  door  while 
Colonel  Hucks  fumbled  with  the  key. 
"Think  of  it,  Father,"  said  Mrs.  Hucks  as 
she  turned  to  descend  from  the  porch. 
"Thirty  years  ago  —  and  you  and  I  have 
been  fighting  so  hard  out  here  —  since  you 
let  me  out  of  your  arms  to  look  after  the 
horses.  Think  of  what  has  come  —  and  — 
and  —  gone,  Father,  and  here  we  are  alone, 
after  it  all." 


154  The  Real  Issue 

"Now,  Mother,  I-  but  the  woman 
broke  in  again  with : 

"Do  you  mind  how  I  looked  that  day? 
O,  William,  you  were  so  fine,  and  so  hand 
some  then!  What's  become  of  my  boy  — 
my  young — sweet — strong — glorious  boy?" 

Mrs.  Hucks's  eyes  were  wet,  and  her  voice 
broke  at  the  end  of  the  sentence. 

"Mother,"  said  the  Colonel,  as  he  went 
around  the  corner  of  the  house,  "just  wait 
a  minute  till  I  see  if  this  kitchen  door  is 
fastened." 

When  he  came  back,  he  screwed  up  the 
corner  of  his  mouth  into  a  droll,  one-sided 
smile  and  said,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes,  to 
the  woman  emerging  from  her  handkerchief: 

"Mother,  for  a  woman  of  your  age,  I 
should  say  you  had  a  mighty  close  call  to 
being  kissed,  just  then.  That  kitchen  door 
was  all  that  saved  you." 

"Now,  Pa,  do  n't  be  silly,"  was  all  that 
Mrs.  Hucks  had  the  courage  to  attempt,  as 
she  climbed  into  the  buggy. 

Colonel  Hucks  and  his  wife  went  down 
the  road,  each  loath  to  go  and  leave  the  home- 


Home-coming  of  Colonel  Hucks     155 

place  without  their  care.  Their  ragged,  un 
even  flow  of  talk  was  rilled  with  more  anx 
iety  about  the  place  which  they  were  leav 
ing,  than  it  was  with  the  joys  anticipated 
at  their  journey's  end.  The  glories  of  Ohio, 
and  the  wonderful  green  of  its  hiils,  and  the 
cool  of  its  meadows,  veined  with  purling 
brooks,  was  a  picture  that  seemed  to  fade  in 
the  mental  vision  of  this  old  pair,  when  they 
turned  the  corner  that  hid  their  Kansas 
home  from  view.  Mrs.  Hucks  kept  revert 
ing  in  her  mind  to  her  recollection  of  the 
bedroom,  which  she  had  left  in  disorder.  The 
parlor  and  the  kitchen  formed  a  mental  pic 
ture  in  the  housewife's  fancy,  which  did  not 
leave  place  for  speculations  about  the  glories 
into  which  she  was  about  to  come.  In  the 
cars,  Colonel  Hucks  found  himself  leaning 
across  the  aisle,  bragging  mildly  about  Kan 
sas,  for  the  benefit  of  a  traveling  man  from 
Cincinnati.  When  the  Colonel  and  his  wife 
spread  their  supper  on  their  knees  in  the 
Kansas  City  Union  Depot,  the  recollection 
that  it  was  the  little  buff  Cochin  pullet  which 
they  were  eating  made  Mrs.  Hucks  very 


156  The  Real  Issue 

homesick.  The  Colonel,  on  being  reminded 
of  this,  was  meditative  also. 

They  arrived  at  their  destination  in  the 
night.  Mrs.  Hucks  and  the  women  of  the 
homestead  refreshed  old  acquaintance  in 
the  bedroom  and  in  the  kitchen,  while  the 
Colonel  and  the  men  sat  stiffly  in  the  parlor, 
and  called  the  roll  of  the  dead  and  absent. 
In  the  morning,  while  he  was  waiting  for  his 
breakfast,  Colonel  Hucks  went  for  a  prowl 
down  in  the  cow  lot.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  the  creek  which  ran  through  the  lot 
was  dry  and  ugly.  He  found  a  stone  upon 
which  as  a  boy  he  had  stood  and  fished. 
He  remembered  it  as  a  huge  boulder,  and  he 
had  told  his  children  wonderful  tales  about 
its  great  size.  It  seemed  to  him  that  it  had 
worn  away  one  half  in  thirty  years.  The 
moss  on  the  river  bank  was  faded  and  old, 
and  the  beauty  for  which  he  had  looked,  was 
marred  by  a  thousand  irregularities,  which 
he  did  not  recall  in  the  picture  of  the  place 
that  he  had  carried  in  his  memory  since  he 
left  it. 

Colonel  Hucks  trudged  up  the  bank  from 


Home-coming  of  Colonel  Hucks     157 

the  stream  with  his  hands  clasped  behind 
him,  whistling  "O,  Lord,  Remember  me," 
and  trying  to  reconcile  the  things  he  had 
seen,  with  those  he  had  expected  to  find. 
At  breakfast  he  said  nothing  of  his  puzzle, 
but  as  Mrs.  Hucks  and  the  Colonel  sat  in 
the  parlor  alone,  during  the  morning,  while 
their  cousins  were  arranging  to  take  the 
Kansas  people  over  the  neighborhood  in  the 
buggy,  Mrs.  Hucks  said : 

" Father,  I  've  been  lookin'  out  the  win 
dow,  and  I  see  they  've  had  such  a  dreadful 
drouth  here.  See  that  grass  there,  it  's  as 
short  and  dry — and  the  ground  looks  burn- 
eder  and  crackeder  than  it  does  in  Kansas." 

"Uhm,  yes,"  replied  the  Colonel.  "I 
had  noticed  that  myself.  Yet  crops  seem  a 
pretty  fair  yield  this  year." 

As  the  buggy  in  which  the  two  families 
were  riding  rumbled  over  the  bridge,  the 
Colonel,  who  was  sitting  in  the  front  seat, 
turned  to  the  woman  in  the  back  seat  and 
said : 

"Lookie  there  Mother,  they  've  got  a 
new  mill  —  smaller'n  the  old  mill,  too." 


158  The  Real  Issue 

To  which  his  cousin  responded,  "Bill 
Hucks,  what  's  got  into  you,  anyway! 
That  's  the  same  old  mill,  where  me  and 
you  used  to  steal  pigeons." 

The  Colonel  looked  closer,  and  drawled 
out,  "Well,  I  be  doggoned !  What  makes 
it  look  so  small?  Ain't  it  smaller,  Mother?" 
he  asked,  as  they  crossed  the  mill-race, 
that  seemed  to  the  Colonel  to  be  a  dimin 
utive  affair,  compared  with  the  roaring  mill- 
race  in  which  as  a  boy  he  had  caught  min 
nows. 

The  party  rode  on  thus  for  half  an  hour, 
chatting  leisurely,  when  Mrs.  Hucks,  who 
had  been  keenly  watching  the  scenery  for 
five  minutes,  pinched  her  husband  and  cried 
enthusiastically,  as  the  buggy  was  descending 
a  little  knoll : 

"Here  't  is,  Father!    This  is  the  place!" 

"What  place?"  asked  the  Colonel,  who 
was  head  over  heels  in  the  tariff. 

"Do  n't  you  know,  William?"  replied  his 
wife  with  a  tremble  in  her  voice,  which  the 
woman  beside  her  noticed. 

Every   one   in   the  buggy  was   listening. 


Home-coming  of  Colonel  Hucks     159 

The  Colonel  looked  about  him;  then,  turn 
ing  to  the  woman  beside  his  wife  on  the 
back  seat,  he  said: 

"This  is  the  place  where  I  mighty  nigh 
got  tipped  over  trying  to  drive  two  horses 
to  a  sleigh,  with  the  lines  between  my  knees. 
Mother  and  me  have  remembered  it,  some 
way,  ever  since."  And  the  old  man  stroked 
his  grizzled  beard,  and  tried  to  smile  on  the 
t  wrong  side  of  his  face,  that  the  women 
might  see  his  joke.  They  exchanged  mean 
ing  glances  when  the  Colonel  turned  away, 
and  Mrs.  Hucks  was  proudly  happy.  Even 
the  dullness  of  the  color  on  the  grass, 
which  she  had  remembered  as  a  luscious 
green,  did  not  sadden  her  for  half  an  hour. 

When  the  two  Kansas  people  were  alone 
that  night,  the  Colonel  asked: 

"Do  n't  it  seem  kind  of  dwarfed  here — to 
what  you  expected  it  would  be?  Seems  to 
me  like  it  's  all  shriveled,  and  worn  out,  and 
old.  Everything  's  got  dust  on  it.  The 
grass  by  the  roads  is  dusty.  The  trees  that 
used  to  seem  so  tall  and  black  with  shade 
are  just  nothing  like  what  they  used  to  be. 


160  The  Real  Issue 

The  hills  I  've  thought  of  as  young  moun 
tains  do  n't  seem  to  be  so  big  as  our  bluff 
back  —  back  home."  . 

Kansas  was  "home"  to  them  now.  For 
thirty  years  the  struggling  couple  on  the 
prairie  had  kept  the  phrase  "back  home" 
sacred  to  Ohio.  Each  felt  a  thrill  at  the 
household  blasphemy,  and  both  were  glad 
that  the  Colonel  had  said  "back  home,"  and 
that  it  meant  Kansas. 

"Are  you  sorry  you  come,  Father?"  said 
Mrs.  Hucks,  as  the  Colonel  was  about  to 
fall  into  a  doze. 

"I  do  n't  know,  are  you?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  yes,  I  guess  I  am.  I  have  n't  no 
heart  for  this,  the  way  it  is,  and  I  've  some 
way  lost  the  picture  I  had  fixed  in  my  mind 
of  the  way  it  was.  I  do  n't  care  for  this, 
and  yet  it  seems  like  I  do,  too.  Oh,  I  wish 
I  had  n't  come,  to  find  everything  so  washed 
out  —  like  it  is!  " 

And  so  they  looked  at  pictures  of  youth 
through  the  eyes  of  age.  How  the  colors 
were  faded!  What  a  tragic  difference  there 
is  between  the  light  which  springs  from  the 


Home-coming  of  Colonel  Hucks    161 

dawn,  and  the  glow  which  falls  from  the 
sunset. 

After  that  first  day  Colonel  Hucks  did 
not  restrain  his  bragging  about  Kansas. 
And  Mrs.  Hucks  gave  rein  to  her  pride 
when  she  heard  him.  Before  that  day  she 
had  reserved  a  secret  contempt  for  a  Kan 
sas  boaster,  and  had  ever  wished  that  he 
might  see  what  Ohio  could  do  in  the  partic 
ular  line  which  he  was  praising.  But  now, 
Mrs.  Hucks  caught  herself  saying  to  her 
hostess,  "What  small  ears  of  corn  you  raise 
here!" 

The  day  after  this  concession  Mrs.  Hucks 
began  to  grow  homesick.  At  first,  she  wor 
ried  about  the  stock;  the  Colonel's  chief 
care  was  about  the  dog.  The  fifth  day's 
visit  was  their  last.  As  they  were  driving 
to  the  town  to  take  the  train  for  Kansas, 
Mrs.  Hucks  overheard  her  husband  discour 
sing,  something  after  this  fashion: 

"I  tell  you,  Jim,  before  I  'd  slave  my  life 
out  on  an  'eighty'  the  way  you  're  doin', 
I  'd  go  out  takin'  in  whitewashin'.  It  's 
just  like  this  —  a  man  in  Kansas  has  lower 


1 62  The  Real  Issue 

taxes,  better  schools,  and  more  advantages 
in  every  way,  than  you  've  got  here.  And 
as  for  grasshoppers?  Why,  Jim  West,  sech 
talk  makes  me  tired !  My  boy  Bill  's  been 
always  born  and  raised  in  Kansas,  and  now 
he  's  in  the  legislature,  and  in  all  his  life, 
since  he  can  remember,  he  never  seen  a 
hopper.  Would  n't  know  one  from  a  sacred 
ibex,  if  he  met  it  in  the  road." 

While  the  women  were  sitting  in  the 
buggy  at  the  depot  waiting  for  the  train, 
Mrs.  Hucks  found  herself  saying: 

"And  as  for  fruit  —  why,  we  fed  apples  to 
the  hogs  this  fall.  I  sold  the  cherries,  all 
but  what  was  on  one  tree  near  the  house, 
and  I  put  up  sixteen  quarts  from  just  two 
sides  of  that  tree,  and  never  stepped  my 
foot  off  the  ground  to  pick  'em." 

When  they  were  comfortably  seated  on 
the  homeward-bound  train,  Mrs.  Hucks  said 
to  her  husband : 

"How  do  you  suppose  they  live  here  in 
this  country,  anyway,  Father?  Don't  any 
one  here  seem  to  own  any  of  the  land  joinin' 
them,  and  they  'd  no  more  think  of  puttin' 


Home-coming  of  Colonel  Hucks    163 

in  water  tanks  and  windmills  around  their 
farms  than  they  'd  think  of  flyin'.  I  just 
wish  Mary  could  come  out  and  see  my  new 
kitchen  sink  with  the  hot  and  cold  water  in 
it.  Why,  she  almost  fainted  when  I  told 
her  how  to  fix  a  dreen  for  her  dishwater 
and  things."  Then  after  a  sigh  she  added, 
"But  they  are  so  onprogressive  here,  now- 
a-days. " 

That  was  the  music  which  the  Colonel 
loved,  and  he  took  up  the  strain,  and  car 
ried  the  tune  for  a  few  miles.  Then  it  be 
came  a  duet,  and  the  two  old  souls  were 
very  happy. 

They  were  overjoyed  at  being  bound  for 
Kansas.  They  hungered  for  kindred  spirits. 
At  Peoria,  in  the  early  morning,  they 
awakened  from  their  chair-car  naps  to  hear 
a  strident  female  voice  saying: 

"Well,  sir,  when  the  rain  did  finally  come, 
Mr.  Morris  he  just  did  n't  think  there  was 
a  thing  left  worth  cutting  on  the  place,  but 
lo,  and  behold,  we  got  over  forty  bushel  to 
the  acre  off  of  that  field,  as  it  was." 

The  Colonel  was  thoroughly  awake  in  an 


164  The  Real  Issue 

instant,  and  he  nudged  his  wife,  as  the  voice 
went  on: 

"Mr.  Morris  he  was  so  afraid  the  wheat 
was  winter  killed  ;  all  the  papers  said  it  was; 
and  then  come  the  late  frost,  which  every 
one  said  had  ruined  it  —  but  law  me —  " 

Mrs.  Hucks  could  stand  it  no  longer. 
With  her  husband's  cane  she  reached  the 
owner  of  the  voice,  and  said: 

"Excuse  me,  ma'am,  but  what  part  of 
Kansas  are  you  from?" 

It  seemed  like  a  meeting  with  a  dear  rela 
tive.  The  rest  of  the  journey  to  Kansas 
City  was  a  hallelujah  chorus,  wherein  the 
Colonel  sang  a  powerful  and  telling  bass. 

When  he  crossed  the  Kansas  state  line 
Colonel  Hucks  began,  indeed,  to  glory  in  his 
state.  He  pointed  out  the  school-houses,  that 
rose  in  every  village,  and  he  asked  his  fellow- 
passenger  to  note  that  the  school-house  is 
the  most  important  piece  of  architecture  in 
every  group  of  buildings.  He  told  the  his 
tory  of  every  rod  of  ground  along  the  Kaw 
to  Topeka.  He  dilated  eloquently,  and  at 
length,  upon  the  coal  mines  in  Osage 


Home-coming  of  Colonel  Hucks     165 

county,  and  he  pointed  with  pride  to  the 
varied  resources  of  his  state.  Every  pros 
pect  was  pleasing  to  Colonel  Hucks,  as  he 
rode  home  that  beautiful  October  day,  and 
his  wife  was  more  radiantly  happy  than  she 
had  been  for  many  years. 

As  the  train  pulled  into  the  little  town  of 
Willow  Creek,  that  afternoon,  the  Colonel 
craned  his  neck  at  the  car  window  to  catch 
the  first  glimpse  of  the  big,  red  standpipe, 
and  of  the  big  stone  school-house  on  the  hill. 
When  the  whistle  blew  for  the  station,  the 
Colonel  said: 

"What  is  it  that  fool  Riley  feller  says 
about  'Grigsby's  Station,  where  we  used  to 
be  so  happy  and  so  pore'  ?  " 

As  the  Colonel  and  his  wife  passed  out  of 
the  town  into  the  quiet  country,  where  the 
shadows  were  growing  long  and  black,  and 
where  the  gentle  blue  haze  was  hanging 
over  the  distant  hills,  that  undulated  the 
horizon,  a  silence  fell  upon  the  two  hearts. 
Each  mind  sped  back  over  a  lifetime  to  the 
evening  when  they  had  turned  out  of  the 
main  road,  in  which  they  were  traveling.  A 


1 66,  The  Real  Issue 

dog  barking  in  the  meadow  behind  the 
hedge  did  not  startle  them  from  their 
reveries.  The  restless  cattle,  wandering 
down  the  hillside  toward  the  bars,  made  a 
natural  complement  to  the  picture  which 
they  loved. 

"It  is  almost  sunset,  Father,"  said  the 
wife,  as  she  put  her  hand  upon  her  hus 
band's  arm. 

Her  touch,  and  the  voice  in  which  she  had 
spoken  tightened  some  cord  at  his  throat. 
The  Colonel  could  only  repeat,  as  he  avoided 
her  gaze : 

"Yes,  almost  sunset,  Mother,  almost 
sunset." 

"It  has  been  a  long  day,  William,  but 
you  have  been  good  to  me.  Has  it  been 
a  happy  day  for  you,  Father?" 

The  Colonel  turned  his  head  away.  He 
was  afraid  to  trust  himself  to  speech.  He 
clucked  to  the  horses  and  drove  down  the 
lane.  As  they  came  into  the  yard,  the  Col 
onel  put  an  arm  about  his  wife  and  pressed 
his  cheek  against  her  face.  Then  he  said 
drolly : 


Home-coming  of  Colonel  Hucks     167 

"Now,  lookie  at  that  dog, —  come  tearin' 
up  here  like  he  never  saw  white  folks  be 
fore!" 

And  so  Colonel  William  Hucks  brought 
his  wife  back  to  Kansas.  Here  their  youth 
is  woven  into  the  very  soil  they  love ;  here 
every  tree  around  their  home  has  its  sacred 
history;  here  every  sky  above  them  recalls 
some  day  of  trial  and  of  hope. 

Here  in  the  gloaming  to-night  stands  an 
old  man,  bent  and  grizzled.  His  eyes  are 
dimmed  with  tears,  which  he  would  not  ac 
knowledge  for  the  world,  and  he  is  dreaming 
strange  dreams,  while  he  listens  to  a  little, 
cracked  voice  in  the  kitchen,  half  humming 
and  half  singing: 

"  Home  again,  home  again, 
From  a  foreign  shore." 


The  Regeneration  of  Colonel 
Hucks 

WHEN  Colonel  William  Hucks,  of 
Upper  Slate  Creek,  in  Center 
Township,  better  known  as  "Uncle  Billy 
Hucks  of  Center,"  was  elected  delegate  to 
the  State  Republican  League  convention  at 
Topeka,  in  1891,  he  untangled  his  legs  from 
the  low  school-house  desk  where  he  had 
been  sitting,  and,  rising,  said  that  he  sup 
posed  the  members  of  the  club  knew  what 
they  were  doing.  He  further  said  that  he 
did  n't  need  to  tell  them  that  he  had  been 
an  Alliance  man  the  year  before,  and  had 
made  a  speech  or  two  on  the  "Muddy"  for 
the  Alliance  ticket,  "though,"  he  added 
with  one  of  his  smiles  from  the  corner  of 
his  mouth,  looking  all  over  the  room  to 
assure  the  fellows  that  he  was  about  to 
make  a  point,  "I  won't  make  any  this 
1 68 


Regeneration  of  Colonel  Hucks      169 

year."  (Enthusiastic  stamping  of  feet.) 
"Not  if  I  know  myself."  (More  pedal  en 
thusiasm.)  But,  nevertheless,  the  old  man, 
as  he  rode  home  that  night,  was  a  little 
exercised  over  the  prospect  of  being  called  a 
traitor  by  his  Alliance  friends,  and  he  won 
dered,  rather  unconsciously,  if  his  declara 
tion  would  n't  look  rather  queer. 

But  when  he  thought  of  seeing  all  the  old 
time  Republican  politicians  at  the  "Cope- 
land,"  and  of  shaking  hands  with  "old 
Plumb,"  and  of  hearing  the  speeches  and 
the  resolutions,  he  forgot  his  doubts,  hit 
Bolivar  an  unusually  hard  lick  as  he  came 
down  off  the  slant  from  the  Slate  Creek 
bridge,  and  thereby  showed  that  his  spirits 
were  improving,  and  that  his  Rubicon  had 
been  forded. 

"Mother,"  said  Colonel  Hucks  the  next 
morning,  "I  guess  I  will  go  to  Topeky  next 
week." 

"Is  that  so?"  said  Mrs.  Hucks,  who  had 
long  since  learned  that  the  best  way  to  find 
out  a  thing  was  not  to  ask  about  it. 

"Yes,"    said    the    Colonel.       "There    is 


170  The  Real  Issue 

goin'  to  be  some  sort  of  a  Republican  doin's 
there,  and  I  guess  I  better  go." 

And  "Mother,"  whose  father  had  "fit 
with  old  Grant,"  and  whose  brother  had 
died  at  Shiloh,  and  whose  faith  in  the  war 
party  had  known  no  wavering,  though  her 
voice  had  been  quiet  for  a  year  or  so,  only 
smiled  and  said,  "I  am  glad  to  hear  you  are 
going,  William,  for  you  do  need  the  rest." 

But  the  Colonel  knew  what  she  meant. 

The  next  week  when  he  drove  out  of  the 
front  gate  he  was  whistling  "John  Brown's 
Body."  As  he  stopped  to  latch  the  gate, 
he  could  hear  a  thin,  quavering,  little  voice, 
down  at  the  spring  house,  as  he  had  heard 
it  before  at  the  bean  dinners,  and  the  camp 
fires,  and  the  rallies  for  a  quarter  of  a  cen 
tury,  singing  with  his  own,  "His  soul  goes 
marching  on."  Colonel  Hucks  recalled  how 
proudly  that  little  voice  had  sung  that  song 
at  the  ratification  of  his  own  election  to  the 
legislature,  in  the  Center  Township  school- 
house,  way  back  in  the  seventies.  He  re 
membered  how  she  had  taught  the  children 
at  the  township  Sunday  school  to  sing  the 


Regeneration  of  Colonel  Hucks      17 1 

song,  before  they  could  afford  singing 
books. 

On  the  main  road  an  Alliance  neighbor, 
afoot,  climbed  into  the  Colonel's  wagon. 
The  Colonel  did  not  talk  much,  for  his 
memory  was  wandering  back  to  the  time 
when  little  Link  had  died  and  they  had 
buried  him  in  the  cute,  blue  soldier  clothes 
"Mother"  had  made  for  the  boy  to  play 
soldier  in  at  the  school  exhibition;  and  the 
old  man  seemed  to  hear  the  children  of  the 
neighbors,  as  they  gathered  around  the  lit 
tle,  rough  coffin,  singing  that  song,  the  only 
song  that  every  one  knew: 

"But  his  soul  goes  marching  on." 
"Got  a  pretty  big  cold,  ain't  you,  Bill? 
It  do  n't  pay  to  go  to  Republican  meetings; 
the  Lord  is  on   our  side,"  said  the  Alliance 

*^J 

neighbor,  who  was  riding  beside  him,  and 
who  had  noticed  the  Colonel's  watery 
eyes. 

"You  just  go  to  hell  a  spell,  will  you?" 
growled  the  old  man,  as  he  sniffed  and 
reached  for  a  handkerchief. 

But,  for  all  this,  the  old  doubt  often  had 


I y2  The  Real  Issue 

been  troubling  him  in  his  calmer  moments.* 
Once,  it  came  very  strong,  when  the  fellows 
at  the  Center  Township  Alliance  said  he 
would  make  a  good  county  treasurer  on  the 
Alliance  ticket.  When  they  started  to  pass 
resolutions  to  that  effect  and  to  elect  him 
to  the  county  convention,  it  was  all  Colonel 
William  Hucks  could  do  to  get  up  and  tell 
them  that  he  was  going  up  to  Topeka  on 
some  private  and  important  business  on  the 
day  of  the  county  convention.  For  he  was 
human.  And  being  human,  he  was  weak. 
So  when  the  county  Alliance  lecturer  asked 
him  if  he  was  really  going  as  a  delegate  to 
the  Republican  convention  in  Topeka,  the 
Colonel  told  the  lecturer  that  he  expected 
to  be  in  Topeka,  anyhow,  and  that  he  sup 
posed  he  would  maybe  drop  in  during  the 
afternoon  and  see  what  kind  of  a  show  the 
Republicans  could  make  when  they  tried. 

The  Colonel  spread  his  name  on  the 
"  Copeland  "  register,  "William  Hucks, 
Hucksville, ' '  and  as  the  clerk  was  asking  him , 
"Will  you  have  a  room,  Colonel  Hucks?" 
he  saw  the  names  of  the  heroes  of  his  party, 


Regeneration  of  Colonel  Hucks      173 

the  men  who  had  made  its  speeches  and 
written  its  platforms  for  a  score  of  years  — 
on  the  big  register  before  his  own;  then  it 
was  that  the  old  Doubt  folded  its  tent. 
When  he  walked  over  to  the  convention  hall 
and  climbed  the  capitol  steps  with  his 
wonted  vigor,  he  stopped  to  look  back  and 
.down  to  see  if  any  of  the  "old  fellows" 
were  coming.  He  went  into  the  governor's 
room,  and  found  Lew  Hanback  there  with 
a  lot  of  "statesmen"  around  him.  He 
stopped  a  moment  to  shake  hands  and 
then  went  on  up  stairs. 

In  the  convention,  the  delegates  were  just 
getting  down  to  business,  and  Burton  was 
making  a  speech.  The  cheering  had  only 
begun,  and  he  joined  it.  All  the  pent-up 
enthusiasm  of  the  day,  all  the  two  years  of 
compromised  silence,  during  Avhich  he  had 
been  in  training  with  the  Alliance,  found 
vent  in  that  first  yell  he  gave.  He  did  n't 
really  know  what  the  speaker  had  said.  He 
didn't  care.  He  felt  the  "power." 
He  wanted  to  cheer.  And  he  cheered.  He 
was  n't  afraid  of  anybody.  He  saw  an  Alii- 


174  The  Real  Issue 

ance  female  lecturer  in  the  gallery,  and  the 
first  time  he  caught  her  eye  he  put  his  hat 
on  the  crook  of  his  cane,  and  yelled  like  a 
Fiji,  when  the  speaker  alluded  to  Elaine. 
The  others  in  the  convention  were  not  so 
enthusiastic  as  he.  He  thought  them  very 
tame.  They  were  younger  than  Colonel 
Hucks,  and  more  careful  of  the  proprieties. 
But  the  Colonel  was  wedded  to  his  idols, 
and  he  did  n't  care  whether  school  kept  or 
not.  He  found  he  was  put  on  the  commit 
tee  on  resolutions,  and  he  made  a  gallant 
fight  to  have  Elaine's  name  mentioned  in 
the  committee's  report.  But  the  young 
man  with  the  type-written  set  of  resolutions 
out-voted  the  Colonel;  so  in  the  convention 
when  the  clause  about  reciprocity  was  read, 
he  led  the  delegates  off  with  an  old-fash 
ioned  "rouser. "  The  Colonel  attracted  so 
much  attention  that  the  young  fellows,  who 
were  at  the  head  of  things,  put  his  name  up 
as  a  candidate  for  some  office  or  other,  that 
was  being  voted  upon,  but  as  he  saw  he 
could  n't  make  it,  he  withdrew.  While  on 
his  feet,  he  was  tempted  to  make  a  school- 


Regeneration  of  Colonel  Hucks      175 

house  speech,  but  he  lacked  courage,  and 
sat  down. 

The  Colonel's  soul  was  at  peace,  and  he 
was  happy. 

But  when  the  "Capital"  reporter  came  to 
him  for  an  interview,  after  adjournment,  the 
Colonel's  cup  ran  over.  Before  this,  there 
had  always  been  so  many  big  fellows  at 
the  state  conventions,  that  Colonel  Hucks 
had  not  been  worth  an  interview,  from  a 
newspaper  standpoint. 

He  had  once  achieved  the  proud  distinc 
tion  of  having  his  name  mis-spelled  in  the 
personal  column  of  the  "Capital,"  in  con 
nection  with  being  a  guest  at  the  "Cope- 
land,"  and  of  reporting  "crops  in  fine 
condition  in  the  Slate  Valley"  ;  but  he  had 
never  before  been  interviewed  by  a  real  city 
reporter.  He  wondered  what  they  would 
say,  when  they  read  this  at  home.  He 
would  have  stayed  with  that  reporter  all 
day,  if  he  had  not  heard  some  one  behind 
him  say,  "Plumb  's  come,  Plumb  's  come!  " 

This  talismanic  signal  passed  around  the 
lobby  of  the  hotel,  with  telegraphic  rapidity. 


176  The  Real  Issue 

And  the  Colonel  joined  the  procession,  which 
was  headed  toward  the  Senator. 

Plumb  was  a  little  heavier  and  a  little 
paler  than  he  had  been  on  the  day  when 
Colonel  Hucks  voted  for  him  for  Senator  in 
the  legislature,  but  otherwise  he  was  un 
changed.  The  great  man  leaned  forward 
with  his  head  on  one  side,  and  extended  to 
the  Colonel  one  hand,  putting  the  other 
upon  the  farmer's  shoulder.  "I  hear  you 
have  been  helping  the  Alliance  and  the 
rebels  pass  the  force  bill,  Colonel,"  said  the 
Senator,  smiling.  "Your  pension  comes  all 
right  now,  don't  it?  Did  you  get  that 
horse  book  you  sent  for?  I  spoke  to  Rusk 
about  it,  and  he  said  he  'd  answer  you. 
Why,  hello  there,  Jim,  how  are  you?" 
And  before  he  knew  it,  the  Colonel  found 
himself  explaining  to  the  crowd  how  he  had 
written  to  Plumb  for  one  of  Jerry  Rusk's 
"agricultural  reports,"  and  how  he  'd  got  a 
letter  from  Rusk  saying  that  they  were  all 
out,  but  that  m'm'm',  and  the  hum  of  the 
other  voices  drowned  his  own. 

At  night,   when   Plumb  was  on  the  ros- 


Regeneration  of  Colonel  Hucks      177 

trum,  Colonel  Hucks  was  tired.  The  old 
man's  applause,  instead  of  being  what  the 
papers  call  "loud  and  continuous,"  was  of 
the  kind  which  nods  the  head,  and  nudges 
the  man  sitting  next,  and  claps  the  hands. 
He  followed  the  Senator  pretty  closely,  and 
when  the  speaker  alluded  to  those  "on 
whose  heads  have  fallen  the  snow  which 
never  melts,"  the  Colonel  caught  his  eye, 
and  the  pathos  of  the  remark  brought  the 
moisture  to  his  own.  After  that,  the  old 
man  nearly  nodded  his  head  off  with 
approbation.  When  "Joe"  Ady  roasted 
the  Alliance,  the  Colonel  felt  rested,  and 
his  loyal  whoop  led  the  applause;  its  echo 
was  the  last  to  die  after  the  speech  had 
closed. 

When  he  got  back  to  Willow  Creek,  his 
county  seat,  the  next  day,  the  Colonel  went 
to  the  office  of  the  Lincoln  County  "Repub 
lican,"  wherein  that  week  appeared  this 
item: 

"Colonel  William  Hucks,  of  Hucksville, 
the  war-horse  of  Center  Township,  was  in 
town  last  night  on  his  return  from  the  State 


178  The  Real  Issue 

Republican  League  convention,  and  made 
this  office  a  pleasant  call.  Colonel  Hucks 
has  been  in  training  with  the  Alliance  for 
the  past  eighteen  months,  but  he  authorizes 
us  to  say  that  he  is  back  in  the  fold  and 
hopes  the  ninety  and  nine  will  rejoice  with 
him.  Uncle  Billy  raised  the  biggest  crop 
of  wheat  ever  raised  on  Slate  Creek,  and  all 
of  the  corn  in  his  200  acre  field  was  sold  by 
him  this  morning  for  $15  an  acre.  He  left 
the  wherewithal  to  pay  for  one  year's  sub 
scription  to  this  great  family  newspaper  and 
the  State  "Capital"  for  one  year.  Uncle 
Billy,  you  're  a  daisy,  and  here's  our  f^gr" 

As  he  drove  into  his  front  yard  that  night 
he  noticed  the  old  regimental  flag  waving 
over  the  door.  Inside  of  the  house,  he 
observed  that  "Mother"  had  brought  out 
the  pictures  of  Grant  and  Sherman  and  Lin 
coln,  which  she  had  put  away  the  year  be 
fore.  They  were  hanging  in  the  best  room 
with  little  "Link's"  faded  blue  soldier-cap 
in  the  center  of  the  group. 
"Did  you  have  a  nice  time  at  Topeky,  Wil 
liam?" 

"Yes,    Mother,"    and    after   a  pause   he 


Regeneration  of  Colonel  Hucks      179 

added,  as  he  looked  at  the  little  cap  and  the 
old  flag,  which  now  and  then  floated  in 
through  the  door,  "and  say,  Mother,  'his 
soul  goes  marching  on.' 

For  Colonel   William    Hucks    was    never 
what  you  would  call  a  "soft"  man. 


The  Undertaker's  Trust 


was  Riggs's  bill  for  hay;  that 
was  $7.  There  was  Morse's  bill  for 
pasture,  due  the  day  before,  that  was  $3.75, 
and  there  was  the  old  bill  against  Judge 
Blair  for  butter  and  milk,  $6.70,  and  noth 
ing  had  been  paid  on  it  for  two  months.  It 
really  seemed  to  Captain  Meyers,  picking  his 
way  along  the  rough  stone  walk  upon  the  side 
streets  and  often  walking  in  the  path  beside  it, 
that  there  would  be  no  difficulty  at  all  in  col 
lecting  the  $5,  that  he  and  his  wife  had  de 
cided  to  spend  upon  their  daughter  Mattie's 
birthday  present.  The  Captain  made  up  his 
mind,  as  he  trudged  along,  to  collect  all  the 
money,  and  to  buy  the  present  that  afternoon 
and  have  it  over  with.  And  to  that  end,  he 
hurried  past  Riggs's  livery  barn,  and  on  to 
ward  the  postoffice,  acting  on  the  theory 
that  if  he  went  to  the  barn  so  soon  after 
iSo 


The  Undertaker's  Trust          181 

dinner,  he  would  not  find  Riggs  there.  It 
was  just  mail  time,  when  the  Captain  arrived 
at  the  postoffice.  He  waited  there  patiently, 
while  the  mail  was  distributed,  and  looked 
at  the  trinkets  in  the  jeweler's  case  in  the 
front  part  of  the  lobby.  He  fancied  a  certain 
gold  and  onyx  pin,  which  he  had  looked  at 
in  the  morning,  and  which  he  had  then  de 
cided  to  buy  for  his  daughter's  birthday 
present,  with  the  money  he  was  about  to 
collect.  He  knew  that  his  wife  wanted  the 
family  present  to  be  a  new  dress;  there  had 
been  some  discussion  on  the  subject  before 
he  left  the  house  that  noon,  after  the  child 
had  gone  to  school,  but  the  Captain's  heart 
was  set  on  the  pin.  And  as  he  stood  peering 
into  the  glass  case,  his  faith  in  it  became 
firmly  fixed.  He  might  have  bought  the 
pin  then  and  there,  but  he  feared  he  would 
be  refused  credit,  and  the  prospect  of  a  hu 
miliating  refusal  frequently  kept  the  Captain 
out  of  debt.  As  he  was  feasting  his  eyes 
upon  the  pin,  his  neighbor,  John  Morse, 
who  owed  the  Captain  for  pasture  rent,  el 
bowed  along  beside  him. 


1 82  The  Real  Issue 

"Hullo,  John,"  said  the  Captain,  looking 
up  suddenly  and  recollecting  that  he  was 
going  to  collect  his  bill  during  the  afternoon, 
and  a  little  fluttered  at  the  prospect.  "They 
make  a  lot  of  durn  fool  purties  —  them  jew 
elers —  don't  they?  Keep  a  feller  pore 
just  to  look  at  'em  purt'  nigh,  do  n't  you 
think?" 

"I  dunno,  Cap,"  replied  the  other  man, 
who  was  a  trifle  ill  at  ease  in  the  presence  of 
his  creditor,  and  wished  to  ward  off  a  dun 
ning.  "I  dunno;  I  s'pose  its  as  easy  to  get 
pore  lookin'  at  the  fixin's,  as  it  is  a-layin' 
'round  doin'  nothin',  as  a  feller's  got  to  do, 
these  days.  And  when  you  do  get  a  little 
job  of  work  it  seems  like  you  can't  never 
get  the  money  on  it." 

Here  Captain  Meyers's  heart  sank;  he 
was  being  outgeneraled,  and  he  knew  it. 
Morse  went  on:  "I  done  a  little  job  over 
here  for  Major  Hanley  the  other  day,  and 
went  down  this  mornin'  to  collect  it  — 
thought  mebbe  might  get  a  little  somethin' 
and  square  up  with  you  and  a  few  odd 
bills  around — but,  by  Johnny,  if  Major 


The  Undertaker's  Trust          183 

did  n't  stand  me  off  till  the  first  of  the 
month." 

The  crowd  was  moving,  and  the  Captain 
knew  that  the  delivery  window  of  the  post- 
office  was  open.  He  did  n't  want  to  seem  a 
hard  man  with  his  neighbors,  so  he  said,  as 
they  walked  toward  the  center  of  the  crowd : 
"Oh,  well,  John,  me  and  you  understand 
each  other;  you  needn't  to  go  and  worry 
about  that  little  business  of  mine;  I  ain't 
in  no  rush." 

The  Captain's  "Veteran's  Defender"  was 
in  his  box,  and  when  he  had  put  it  in  his 
pocket,  he  drifted  in  the  current  of  the 
crowd,  and  found  himself  being  carried  up 
the  broad  smooth  stone  sidewalks  of  the 
business  street  to  the  row  of  straggling,  one- 
story  frame  offices,  carpenter  shops,  and  mil 
linery  stores,  that  marked  the  dividing  line 
between  the  residence  and  business  portions 
of  the  town.  As  he  came  to  the  crossing,  a 
buggy  bumping  over  the  stones  stopped  the 
group  of  which  he  was  a  member. 

"Who's  that  with  Riggs  in  the  buggy?" 
asked  the  Captain. 


184  The  Real  Issue 

"Oh,  him?  Why  that  's  a  drummer; 
I  heard  him  say  he  was  going  to  drive  over 
to  Fairview  to  catch  the  main-line  South, 
to-night,"  said  an  elderly  member  of  the 
party,  who  responded  when  any  one  spoke 
to  the  "colonel."  It  would  be  wrong  to 
say  that  Captain  Meyers's  heart  sank  at  hear 
ing  this,  for  he  thought  with  a  feeling  of 
relief  that  to-morrow  would  be  the  best  time 
to  collect  Riggs's  bill,  anyway.  The  group 
sauntered  into  one  of  the  little  offices,  as 
was  the  custom  of  its  members,  and  the 
Captain  told  himself  that  he  would  wait 
until  Judge  Blair  had  finished  his  mail  before 
disturbing  him. 

The  Colonel,  and  "Doc,"  and  "J.  L.," 
and  the  Captain,  that  was  the  coterie.  They 
had  become  cronies  during  the  years  that  fol 
lowed  the  "  boom  "  and  left  them  idle.  The 
Colonel  had  been  county  surveyor,  "Doc" 
had  been  coroner  years  ago,  before  the  young 
doctors  crowded  him  out  of  his  practice, 
and  "J.  L."  was  the  real  estate  dealer,  who 
owned  the  office.  Captain  Meyers  had  been 
county  clerk  two  terms,  deputy  one  term, 


The  Undertaker's  Trust          185 

then  city  clerk,  and  finally,  constable ;  he 
was  sometimes  made  deputy  sheriff  when 
there  was  extra  work.  But  he  was  at  the 
end  of  his  political  rope.  By  close  living  his 
wife  had  saved  the  farm  near  town,  which 
was  their  homestead,  before  they  moved  to 
the  county  seat.  She  had  saved  a  little 
money,  which  was  at  interest,  and  the 
family  lived  off  the  farm  and  small  sums 
coming  from  chickens,  and  butter,  and  eggs. 
The  Captain's  only  child  was  the  girl  —  Mat- 
tie —  thirteen  years  old,  and  on  her  he  lav 
ished  the  affection  of  a  heart  still  mellow. 
As  he  sat  in  the  office  "gassing"  with  the 
crowd,  he  thought  of  the  pin  and  how  beau 
tiful  it  was,  and  how  the  child  would  enjoy 
it,  and  he  almost  lost  the  thread  of  the  con 
versation. 

"Do  n't  you,  Cap?"  said  the  Colonel. 

"Do  n't  I  what?  '  said  the  Captain,  wak 
ing  from  his  reverie,  "I  do,  if  you  say  I  do, 
but  what  is  it?" 

"Well,"  explained  the  first  speaker,  "I 
was  just  sayin'  that  there  was  just  as  smart 
folks  down  here  on  the  'Crick'  as  they  is 


1 86  The  Real  Issue 

up  there  in  the  city,  if  they  only  had  the 
swing  that  the  other  fellows  had.  And  I 
said  that  's  what  you  said,  do  n't  you, 
Cap'n? " 

"That  's  just  what  I've  contended  all  the 
time;  do  n't  take  no  smarter  man  to  run  a 
railroad  than  to  run  a  street  car  line ;  and 
do  n't  take  no  more  brains  to  run  a  street 
car  'n  it  does  to  run  a  stage  line,  and  no 
more  to  run  a  stage  'n  it  does  to  run  a  dray, 
and  a  man  that  can't  run  a  dray  ain't 
worth  his  salt." 

"That  's  right,"  broke  in  the  real  estate 
man.  "I  've  seen  it  worked  time  and  again. 
Now  take  that  Rushmer  feller;  warn't  so 
overly  much  down  here;  I  done  him  up, 
myself,  in  a  little  deal  in  College  Hill  lots. 
Now  look  at  him;  up  there  in  the  city,  got 
a  carriage  and  nigger  driver,  and  every  one 
thinks  he  's  old  persimmons.  It  's  all  owin' 
to  the  length  of  the  leever  you  're  a  workin' 
with.  If  you  're  workin'  with  cents,  you 
make  cents;  if  the  handle  of  your  leever  is 
a  little  longer  and  you  're  workin'  with  dol 
lars,  you  make  dollars;  if  it  's  hundreds, 


The  Undertaker's  Trust          187 

you  make  hundreds;  and  if  it  's  thousands 
you  get  your  picture  in  the  paper  as  a 
'Napoleon  of  finance.' 

"I  guess  that  's  mighty  near  the  truth," 
said  the  Doctor  in  the  sententious  pause 
that  followed. 

The  Captain  was  just  starting  for  Judge 
Blair's  to  collect  the  butter  and  milk  bill, 
when  he  saw  the  Judge  come  out  of  his 
office  and  go  down  street.  He  settled  back 
in  his  seat  by  the  window,  to  wait  until  the 
Judge  returned.  The  talk  droned  along. 
From  "Napoleons  of  finance"  it  turned  to 
trusts,  and  from  trusts  to  the  great  fortunes 
made  in  the  insurance  business.  And  it 
must  have  been  nearly  four  o'clock  when 
the  Captain  held  the  reins  of  the  rambling 
discourse,  and  was  guiding  it  by  mere  im 
pulse  as  follows: 

"Yes,  sir;  a  undertaker's  insurance  com 
pany.  A  sort  of  undertaker's  trust.  F'r  in 
stance,  say  our  man  Nichols  here  belonged ; 
s'pose  I  'd  pay  him  say  $5  a  year,  and 
would  agree  to  keep  it  up  for  the  rest  of  my 
life,  if  he  would  give  me  a  certain  specified 


1 88  The  Real  Issue 

burial.  All  right;  say  I  move  away  from 
here.  Very  well;  I  have  my  receipt  —  my 
policy  —  from  old  man  Nichols  —  and  I  go 
to  the  town  where  I  move  to,  and  take  it  to 
the  member  of  the  insurance  company,  or 
trust,  or  what  you  may  call  it,  that  lives 
there,  and  pay  him  while  I  live  there;  then 
if  I  move  on  I  keep  transferrin'  my  pol 
icy,  and  at  last  I'm  buried  in  style,  and  my 
family  ain't  out  a  red.  The  trust  has  got 
the  money,  and  if  I  only  pay  the  last  man 
a  $5  bill,  the  trust  pays  him  forgivin'  me  a 
good  burial.  They  have  the  use  of  my 
money;  I  don't  feel  it;  all  right  —  and  in 
the  end  it  ain't  hard  for  my  family  to  raise 
the  money,  when  they  do  n't  know  where  to 
turn  to  get  it.  Rates  can  be  just  like  insur 
ance  rates,  high  or  low,  accordin'  to  the 
age  a  man  is  and  the  style  he  wants  to  go 
out  with." 

"Then  your  idee,"  put  in  the  real  estate 
man,  "is  to  take  dyin'  out  of  the  luxuries 
of  the  rich  and  put  it  in  the  reach  of  all." 

The  crowd  laughed. 

Captain   Meyers   laughed   with   the   rest, 


The  Undertaker's  Trust         189 

but  his  eyes  glowed,  and  he  was  filled  with 
the  scheme  that  had  evolved  from  his  talk. 
It  seemed  so  plain  and  feasible  to  him  —  this 
plan  of  forming  an  undertaker's  trust  to  in 
sure  men  decent  burial.  He  saw  that  if  he 
could  get  a  place  at  the  head  of  such  an  en 
terprise,  and  push  it  to  a  reality,  he  would 
be  rich.  He  was  afraid  lest  some  of  his  com 
panions  should  see  the  value  of  the  idea, 
and  he  let  the  talk  roll  over  him,  saying 
nothing  further  of  what  was  in  his  mind. 

Judge  Blair,  passing  along  the  street  to 
ward  his  office,  aroused  the  Captain  from 
his  castle  building.  As  he  crossed  the  street 
to  Judge  Blair's  office,  he  concluded  to  take 
the  Judge  into  his  plans.  He  would  need 
a  partner,  and  a  lawyer  and  a  man  of  the 
world,  he  thought.  Judge  Blair  was  three 
in  one  and  one  in  three  —  the  very  trinity 
he  wanted.  The  Judge  was  the  county 
politician ;  he  knew  all  the  statesmen  in  the 
state ;  he  knew  the  bankers  and  the  lawyers 
and  the  editors  in  the  big  city.  In  fact,  when 
any  one  spoke  of  Willow  Creek,  beyond  its 
corporate  limits,  he  always  spoke  of  it  as 


190  The  Real  Issue 

Judge  Blair's  town.  Judge  Blair  was  always 
in  debt,  yet  his  credit  remained  good,  because 
he  paid  in  smiles  and  patronage  and  rail 
road  passes,  what  he  could  not  pay  in  cash ; 
so  the  town  took  what  he  had  to  offer,  and 
discounted  it  by  pitying  him  for  what  it  called 
"his  extravagant  family."  He  was  Captain 
Meyers's  idol ;  he  sometimes  paid  the  Cap 
tain  money  —  an  unusual  distinction  —  and 
he  always  got  the  Captain  railroad  passes  to 
the  state  G.  A.  R.  reunions.  The  Captain 
was  fairly  bubbling  with  enthusiasm,  when  he 
reached  Judge  Blair's  private  office.  The 
Judge  thought  Captain  Meyers  had  come  to 
ask  for  money,  as  in  fact  he  had ;  he  really 
intended  to  get  it  before  he  left,  but  he 
poured  out  his  plans  first,  almost  in  a  breath. 
"What  do  you  think  of  it,  Judge?"  he 
asked,  after  the  first  pause,  when  the  Judge 
had  just  finished  telling  him  that  it  looked 
feasible.  "Do  n't  you  think  it  will  go? 
Everybody's  got  to  die,  and  everyone  wants 
a  nice  funeral.  What  do  they  join  lodges 
for,  if  they  do  n't?  We  get  the  use  of  the 
man's  money;  we  get  the  profits  on  funeral 


The  Undertaker's  Trust          191 

expenses  before  they  are  incurred.  We 
could  issue  ten,  twenty,  and  twenty-five 
year  policies,  and  with  a  certificate  on  him 
a  man  could  move  anywhere,  and  be  sure  of 
a  good  funeral.  Say,  Judge,  won't  you 
take  holt  of  this?  It  's  a  big  thing,  Judge, 
a  mighty  big  thing.  What  say,  Judge,  is  it 
a  go?"  They  talked  until  the  gloaming  fell, 
and  walked  home  in  the  sunset  glow,  stop 
ping  for  half  an  hour  at  the  parting  of  their 
ways  to  go  over  again  the  elaborated 
scheme. 

Captain  Meyers,  who  always  came  in 
through  the  back  door  of  his  house,  brought 
a  load  of  wood  in  his  arms,  this  evening,  as 
a  flag  of  truce.  He  wanted  to  make  peace 
with  his  wife  before  she  asked  about  the 
afternoon's  collections.  Mattie  was  "lay 
ing"  the  supper  table  as  he  entered  the 
kitchen  door,  and  his  wife  was  busy  over 
the  stove.  He  spoke  as  he  laid  down  the 
wood.  "Ma,  I  've  had  a  good  talk  with 
Judge  Blair  this  afternoon;  him  and  me 
stopped  down  there  at  Nichols's  corner  a 
few  minutes  and  that  's  what  made  me  late." 


192  The  Real  Issue 

There  was  something  in  his  voice  which 
the  woman  recognized  to  distrust.  She 
saw  he  was  manceuvering;  it  angered  her; 
she  knew  he  had  not  collected  the  bills  she 
had  given  him ;  she  knew  very  well  he  was 
trying  to  talk  her  out  of  scolding  him.  She 
was  a  large  woman,  fat  and  lusty.  He  was 
much  older,  and  thinner,  and  less  vigorous 
than  she.  She  was  cruel  to  him  that  night, 
as  she  often  was,  and  his  great  scheme  only 
unfolded  itself  as  an  apology  for  his  idleness, 
after  she  had  rebuked  him ;  it  did  not  come 
as  he  would  have  had  it  come,  as  a  justifica 
tion  for  forgetting  everything  else.  His 
daughter  did  not  understand  it  at  all,  but 
when  he  had  finished,  and  stood  leaning  on 
the  threshold  of  the  dining-room  door,  hesi 
tating,  she  beckoned  him  into  the  room 
where  she  was  clattering  the  knives  and  forks. 
She  gave  him  a  good  girlish  hug  and  a  kiss, 
and  pointed  to  a  plate  of  corn  bread  near 
his  plate.  He  knew  that  she  had  made  it 
for  him.  Her  mother  did  not  eat  it,  and 
never  cooked  it,  though  it  was  his  favorite 
dish. 


The  Undertaker's  Trust          193 

"Now,  Mattie,  what  'd  you  go  and  cook 
that  for,"  he  said,  "and  get  yourself  all 
played  out  for  the  party?  I  could  'a'  ate 
light  bread  just  as  well." 

But  he  patted  her  cheek  as  he  said  it,  and 
sat  on  the  lounge  and  watched  her  lovingly, 
as  she  went  about  her  task.  And  he  lay 
awake  far  into  the  night  furnishing  an  air 
castle  with  ivory  and  gold,  wherein  his 
daughter  was  to  be  the  queen. 

The  next  day  was  Mattie's  birthday; 
Judge  Blair  had  gone  out  of  town.  The 
Captain  felt  that  it  would  do  no  good  to  see 
his  neighbor  Morse,  after  the  rebuff  of  the 
previous  day.  He  was  afraid  to  delay  a 
minute  in  seeing  Riggs,  and  yet  he  feared 
to  see  him,  for  on  him,  alone,  lay  all  his 
hopes;  he  knew  that  he  must  have  that 
$7  hay  bill,  or  forego  the  onyx  pin,  and  his 
heart  was  set  on  that.  He  walked  past 
Riggs's  livery  barn  to  the  postoffice,  the  first 
thing  in  the  morning,  and  looked  at  the  pin 
in  the  jeweler's  case,  in  walking  by. 

He  faltered,  as  he  eyed  it,  coming  from 
the  postoffice  wicket;  the  jeweler  saw  him; 


194  The  Real  Issue 

there  was  no  one  in  the  lobby  that  morning. 
"Can  we  show  you  anything  this  morning, 
Cap'n?"  asked  the  clerk,  turning  from  his 
work  bench  with  a  rubber-cased  microscope 
stuck  over  his  eye. 

"Nothin'  partic'lar  —  well,  I  don't  know, 
but  what  you  can  let  me  look  at  that  onyx 
pin  you  was  showin'  me  here  the  other 
day." 

He  carried  the  image  of  the  pin  in  his 
mind  to  Riggs's  stable;  it  made  him  bold 
to  clear  his  throat  before  saying,  "Well, 
Jim  Riggs,  how  'd  you  and  that  drummer 
make  it  yesterday,  goin'  over  to  Fairview?" 

"M  —  hm  —  n,  I  dunno;  all  right,  I 
guess,"  replied  the  liveryman,  who  knew 
what  was  coming. 

"Well  —  say — Jim — would  it  be  pushing 
you  too  much  to  ask  you  for  a  little  some 
thing  on  the  hay  account?"  It  was  out,  and 
the  Captain  knew  he  had  said  it  poorly. 
To  mend  it,  he  added,  "I  'm  needin'  it, 
right  now  for  a  little  matter." 

Of  course,  he  did  n't  get  it,  and  when  he 
met  Mattie  on  the  street,  coming  home 


The  Undertaker's  Trust          195 

from  school,  he  sent  word  to  her  mother  that 
he  was  busy  and  would  not  be  home  to 
dinner.  He  forgot  all  about  the  under 
taker's  trust  that  day,  as  he  walked  listlessly 
from  one  loafing  place  to  another,  and  back 
again,  trying  to  get  away  from  the  dread  of 
going  home  empty-handed  at  nightfall.  He 
lounged  into  the  postoffice  with  the  crowd 
at  mail  time,  in  the  afternoon,  and  gazed 
longingly  at  the  coveted  jewel.  But  he 
could  not  bring  himself  to  ask  for  credit, 
especially  since  he  had  said  in  the  morning 
that  he  was  coming  around  to  get  the  pin 
when  he  got  some  money,  and  the  jeweler 
had  not  taken  the  hint.  He  felt  of  the  half 
dollar  in  his  pocket,  and  looked  at  every 
thing  which  he  thought  could  be  had  for 
that  sum,  but  nothing  suited  his  purpose. 

It  was  nearly  sundown,  when  a  peddler  of 
whittled  trinkets  stumbled  into  the  real 
estate  office  where  the  cronies  were  loafing. 
The  peddler  was  an  oldish  man,  and  claimed 
to  be  blind.  The  fact  that  he  had  whittled 
the  intricate  fancies,  although  he  was  blind, 
lent  value  to  them  in  the  eyes  of  his  cus- 


196  The  Real  Issue 

tomers.  There  was  a  large,  circular  piece 
of  pine,  fretted  with  holes  and  with  serrated 
edges ;  it  was  made  from  one  block  of 
wood. 

"What  's  that  wheel  business  for?"  asked 
"J.  L."  of  the  vender. 

"Oh,  that?  That  's  just  a  kind  of  a 
purty;  a  card  case  some  uses  'em  fer. " 

"What  's  it  worth?"  asked  a  curious 
bystander. 

"I  get  a  dollar  and  a  half  for  them,"  re 
sponded  the  peddler,  holding  it  up  to  show 
it  to  advantage. 

The  Captain  was  rolling  his  fifty-cent 
piece  idly  in  his  pocket,  when  the  answer 
came.  Suddenly  desperation  seized  him  at 
the  thought  of  going  home  on  his  child's 
birthday  without  a  present,  and  as  the  ped 
dler  was  moving  out  of  the  door,  Captain 
Meyer  said: 

"I  '11  give  you  fifty  cents  for  that  whirl-a- 
ma-gig,  thing-a-ma-bob  card  case,  or  what 
ever  you  call  it." 

It  was  the  last  one  the  peddler  had,  and 
he  took  the  Captain's  money. 


The  Undertaker's  Trust          197 

The  child  met  her  father  at  the  gate,  and 
took  his  arm  as  they  walked  down  the  path. 
The  thought  of  the  gold  and  onyx  pin 
made  the  wooden  trifle  he  carried  in  the 
hand  farthest  from  her  seem  very  cheap 
to  him. 

"It  is  n't  much,  Mattie,"  he  said  as  they 
reached  the  front  steps,  "but  I  thought 
maybe  you  'd  understand  it  was  all  your  ma 
and  me  could  do.  It  '11  look  purty  on  the 
organ,  or  on  the  center  table.  The  man  said 
it  was  a  card  case."  The  old  man's  voice 
faltered  as  he  went  on:  "Maybe  at  your 
next  birthday  your  pa  will  have  more  to  do 
with." 

He  was  thinking  of  the  undertaker's  trust. 
The  child  was  her  father's  child,  and  she 
hugged  him  and  thanked  him  over  and 
over  again  for  the  toy.  It  made  him  happy, 
and  he  was  radiant  in  her  reflected  smiles. 
They  had  gone  around  the  house  to  the 
kitchen  door  when  the  girl  said:  "And  oh, 
Pa,  did  you  see  the  gold  and  onyx  pin 
Ma  brought  me  from  the  store  this  after 
noon?" 


198  The  Real  Issue 

Captain  Meyers  kissed  his  wife  for  the  first 
time  in  years.  It  was  all  over  so  quickly 
that  she  did  not  think  to  scold,  but  mingled 
her  tears  with  his,  and  her  laughter  with 
that  of  the  child. 


"That's    For  Remembrance." 

IN  the  morning  the  house,  which  faced 
eastward,  presented  a  square  expanse 
.of  white  stone  shining  in  the  sun  through  a 
bower  of  old  elms.  It  sat  somewhat  further 
back  in  the  lot  than  most  houses  on  the 
street,  and  at  night  the  shadows  of  the  elm 
branches  almost  hid  it. 

When  the  night  was  windy, — and  it  is 
often  windy  in  this  zone, — the  great  square 
house  came  in  and  out  of  the  shadows,  as 
the  branches  bent  to  disclose  it,  and  then  to 
hide  it,  like  a  ghostly  thing. 

The  house  was  a  generation  old,  and  in 
the  corners  and  upon  certain  sides,  ivy  had 
grown.  The  ivy  made  it  seem  less  austere; 
yet  its  straight  lines  at  the  eaves,  its  un 
broken  sides,  its  high  porches  unrelieved  by 
fret-work  or  gewgaws,  despite  the  softening 
ivy,  gave  it  something  of  a  sepulchral  look. 
199 


2OO  The  Real  Issue 

The  wayfarer  thought,  as  he  passed  it,  of 
great  cheerless  rooms,  with  high  ceilings  and 
damp  walls. 

On  a  night  when  the  autumn  leaves  rode 
the  gusty  wind,  a  man  and  a  woman  alighted 
from  a  public  carriage  in  front  of  the  house, 
and  proceeded  to  its  doorway  where  the 
man  unlocked  the  door  and  the  two  entered. 
It  was  not  yet  midnight.  They  were  evi 
dently  expected,  for  the  servants  had 
lighted  the  fire  in  the  grates,  and  an  electric 
bulb  glowed  in  the  hallway. 

Just  inside  the  door  the  man  and  woman, 
finding  there  was  no  servant  in  sight  or 
hearing,  embraced  rapturously,  and  walked, 
entwined  in  each  other's  arms,  through  a 
double  door  to  a  sparkling  fire. 

Their  voices  were  low  and  sweet.  They 
had  been  married  a  month;  it  was  their 
home  coming.  The  bluster  of  the  wind  out 
side  made  the  fire  feel  grateful.  They  sat 
almost  silently  in  sheer  joy  before  it,  for  a 
few  moments.  The  woman  rose  to  go  to 
another  room.  The  man  detained  her. 
He  said : 


That 's  for  Remembrance         201 

" Sweetheart,  wait  a  minute,  won't  you?" 

She  came  to  his  side  with  a  word  of  en 
dearment  and  a  caress  that  had  even  then 
become  almost  a  habit. 

"You  won't  mind,  will  you  darling,  if  I 
talk  just  a  little  bit  about  Ruth— -right  now 
—  will  you?" 

A  look  answered;  he  went  on.  "You 
know  she  was  a  very  good  woman" — he 
was  going  to  say  "little  woman,"  but 
checked  it.  The  wife  only  pressed  her 
husband's  arm.  She  was  a  woman  of  twen 
ty-eight,  and  very  sane. 

"She  always  wanted  me  to  —  to  do  this, 
to  marry  again."  The  man  stammered. 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  his  wife. 

"Yes" — the  man  continued — "and  dar 
ling,  one  day  just  before  the  last  —  she 
made  me  promise  one  thing.  It  was  all  she 
ever  asked,  and  I — I — ,  you  would  n't  have 
me  break  it,  would  you?" 

His  wife  pressed  his  arm  reassuringly,  and 
he  went  over  to  a  desk  and  there  in  a  drawer 
found  a  large  manilla  envelope  addressed  to 
"Mr.  and  Mrs.  James  Gordon."  The  writ- 


The  Real  Issue 

ing  was  a  woman's.  He  crossed  the  room 
to  his  wife  with  the  envelope. 

She  watched  him  curiously.  He  was 
visibly  embarrassed.  The  woman  advanced 
and  said : 

"What  is  it,  James,  don't  be  afraid  of 
me.  My  poor  boy,  I  honor  you  so  much 
for  this." 

She  had  not  seen  the  envelope.  When 
she  saw  it,  she  looked  surprised. 

"Yes,"  said  the  man  —  noting  her  look. 
"It  's  her  writing — Ruth's  —  I  promised  I'd 
open  it  the  night  I  brought  any  one  —  you 
know  —  home.  She  was  a  sick  child,  Mar 
garet,  and — "  He  feared  to  go  further  in 
deprecation.  He  knew  he  should  despise 
himself  if  he  did,  and  he  feared  his  wife 
would  despise  him. 

He  tore  open  the  envelope  and  two 
smaller  white  ones,  each  addressed  —  one  to 
James  Gordon,  and  the  other  to  Mrs.  James 
Gordon,  fell  out  on  the  table. 

"I  think,"  said  the  husband,  "she  de 
sired  us  to  read  them.  Can  you  for  me  — 
Margaret?"  he  asked. 


That 's  for  Remembrance         203 

The  woman  snapped  on  an  electric  current, 
and  taking  her  letter  from  its  sheath,  read, 
while  her  husband  did  the  same.  They 
were  sitting  by  the  fire  as  they  read.  The 
man's  epistle  was  the  shorter.  It  was  this: 

"My  Dear,  Dear  Boy:  —  I  wanted  so  to 
be  resurrected  for  a  minute  or  two, —  real 
and  alive  to  you,  and  I  thought  it  all  over 
so  many  times  at  the  last,  Jim,  and  I  said, 
I  want  to  be  with  Jim  when  he  is  like  he 
was  when  I  know  he  was  the  happiest.  I 
did  n't  want  to  come  back  for  the  last  time 
to  a  sad,  tearful  Jim,  but  to  just  my  Jim  as 
he  was  when  I  loved  him  best.  It  will 
make  me  happier  to  see  you  as  you  are  to 
night,  Jim.  Oh!  it  makes  me  so  happy  to 
see  you  happy,  my  boy.  I  must  not  stay 
any  longer;  it  will  make  you  feel  bad,  and 
I  won't  be  a  selfish  thing.  Now  that  I  Ve 
seen  you,  my  own  Jim,  and  had  this  little 
talk  with  you,  I  do  n't  mind  it  at  all.  Oh! 
goodbye  Jim,  goodbye,  goodbye!  Oh!  I 
—  I  —  no  I  must  not  say  that  —  just  good 
bye.  RUTH."  The  other  letter  ran  thus: 

"My  Dear  Mrs.    Gordon:      You    won't 


204  The  Real  Issue 

be  jealous  of  a  poor  dead  woman,  will  you? 
Nor  grudge  her  just  a  minute  out  of  your 
joy.  I  'm  so  glad  you  married  Jim,  and 
you  know  I  wanted  to  see  you  and  him 
right  now  at  your  happiest.  Is  n't  life 
good?  I  won't  ever  come  back  any  more, 
and  you  won't  blame  me  for  being  a  little 
childish  to-night.  I  '11  tell  you  what,  I  did  n't 
feel  it  right  to  tell  Jim  —  that  I  love  him. 
There,  I  've  said  it, —  and  he  was  my  God. 
You  must  not  tell  him  this  nor  anything, 
but  you  '11  like  Jim  better,  and  me  too,  for 
saying  it.  It  feels  good  to  wash  my  soul  of 
all  dross  and  give  Jim  to  you  —  all  of  him. 
But,  O,  my  dear,  my  dear,  be  good  to  him. 
He  has  a  gentle  heart,  has  my  —  your  boy. 
God  bless  him  and  you.  I  was  going  to 
sign  Mrs.  Ruth  Gordon,  but  I  can  't,  can  I? 
Isn't  it  strange?  You  '11  be  good  to  Jim 
now,  won't  you?  Yours," 

"  RUTH  MASON." 

The  woman  walked  to  the  grate  and 
burned  her  letter  without  saying  a  word. 
The  man,  who  was  standing  near  her,  let  his 
paper  slip  and  fall  into  the  flames.  Each  sat 


That 's  for  Remembrance        205 

down,  and  the  gust  of  wind  clicked  a  latch 
somewhere  in  the  great  house.  This  start 
led  them.  Each  saw  that  there  was  a  va 
cant  chair  between  them.  Something 
clutched  sharply  at  each  heart  a  moment, 
then  the  woman  crept  swiftly  to  the  man 
with  a  sob,  and  life  —  warm  and  sweet  with 
love,  took  up  its  rushing  course  again. 


A  Nocturne. 

NIGHT,  and  the  stars,  and  the  summer 
moon,  large  and  opulent  in  yellow 
splendor,  drifting  on  the  billows  that  the 
soft  south  wind  makes  in  the  tops  of  the 
eastern  elm  trees;  night,  and  the  stars,  and 
the  quiet  of  the  country,  the  large  somber 
quiet,  dotted  here  and  there  by  the  tinkle 
of  country  cow-bells,  rumpled  with  the 
prattle  of  distant  waters  that  the  wind 
brings  now  and  then;  night,  and  the  stars, 
and  voices  that  blow  from  nowhere  into 
dreams  and  are  lost  in  the  blur  of  intoxi 
cated  fancies  which  come  trooping  across  the 
mind's  well-beaten  playground;  night,  and 
the  stars,  and  love  —  the  visions  that  young 
men  see,  and  the  dreams  that  old  men  cher 
ish  ;  night,  and  the  stars,  and  the  powerful 
spell  of  the  half  lights,  the  conjurer's 
draught  working  its  great  mystery  upon 
206 


A  Nocturne  207 

the  heart ;  here  they  sit  under  the  night  and 
the  stars  —  comrades.  They  had  been  boys 
in  the  old  days  together.  Perhaps  to 
many  reckoners  of  time  the  old  days  had 
not  seemed  far  distant — a  year,  a  decade  — - 
they  are  long  at  the  threshold  of  youth, 
where  small  events  are  shaping  eternal  des 
tinies.  The  old  days  to  these  two  meant 
the  dear  days  —  the  very  young  days,  the 
days  of  guitar  strings,  and  love  songs,  and 
oar-locks. 

These  comrades  had  come  back  to  the 
little  town,  one  from  the  East,  one  from  the 
West,  and  were  sitting  on  the  hill  where 
they  had  stood  of  old.  They  were  watch 
ing  the  lights  twinkle  and  fade  in  the  vil 
lage.  The  roll  of  the  absent  ones  had  been 
called,  and  re-called,  and  names  that  each 
wished  left  unspoken  were  consciously 
breathed  in  a  dozen  silences.  They  were  not 
so  old ;  yet  the  dead  were  there.  They 
were  not  so  young  that  life  was  new  to 
them.  The  night  was  a  joy  to  them  be 
cause  its  reminiscences  were  fresh ;  its  pota 
tion  exhilarated  them  with  real  thrills  of 


208  The  Real  Issue 

hopes  unexpressed  —  that  delirium  which 
youth  has  stolen  from  the  barbaric  gods. 
Faces,  places,  fancies  passed  them  in  bright 
review,  and,  filled  with  the  maudlin  witch 
ery  of  the  night  and  its  brew,  in  a  silence 
that  fell  gently  between  the  two,  the 
younger  man  lifted  his  voice  in  an  old  song 
that  had  been  an  outlet  for  their  efferves 
cent  spirits  in  the  other  days.  In  those 
days  they  had  roared  it  out,  dwelling  on 
the  garish  cadences,  bearing  down  on  the 
rude  and  imperfect  sequences  of  harmony, 
and  welling  forth  their  youthful  exuberance 
in  a  bubble  of  song.  Now  they  were  glad 
when  the  verse  ended  that  they  might  clear 
their  throats  as  the  song  went  on,  and  half 
of  the  forgotten  stanza  came  out,  "dah, 
dah."  The  chorus  ran: 

"How  the  old  folks  would  enjoy  it! 
They  would  sit  all  night  and  listen 
As  we  sang  in  the  evening 
By  the  moonlight." 

They  crooned  rather  than  sang  the  ballad ; 
there  was  no  spring,  no  clink  of  youth  to 
the  voices  that  sighed  the  old  song.  The 


A  Nocturne  209 

words  even  now  passed  unheeded  from  their 
lips.  He  who  took  the  tenor  part  could 
not  reach  the  high  notes,  so  he  sang  in 
unison  with  the  other  in  places.  It  was 
not  much  past  midnight,  yet  each  felt  his 
bed  drawing  him  to  it.  After  the  song, 
they  sat  listening  to  the  ripples  of  sound 
that  beat  upon  the  shore  of  the  night. 

Suddenly  below  them,  from  some  recent 
ly  unhoused  evening  gathering,  came  a 
song,  whose  melody  throbbed  to  the  chords 
of  a  guitar.  "Bring  back,  bring  back,  bring 
back  my  bonnie  to  me,"  came  the  old  song. 
The  two  comrades  sat  mute.  It  was  such  a 
lusty  song;  the  notes  were  so  full  of  animal 
vigor.  The  holds  in  the  tune  were  clutched 
firmly  by  the  virile  tenors  and  voluptuous 
contraltos. 

"My  Bonnie  lies  over  the  ocean, 

My  Bonnie  lies  over  the  sea, 

My  Bonnie  lies  over  the  ocean, 

Oh,  bring  back  my  Bonnie  to  me !  " 

"They  sing  well,  don't  they?"  said  one 
of  the  comrades,  while  the  guitar  was  hunt 
ing  for  the  thread  of  some  fresh  melody. 


2io  The  Real  Issue 

'Yes;  I  could  sit  here  all  night  and  hear 
them  sing.  It  is  as  in  a  looking-glass." 

The  voice  that  replied  was  drowned  in 
the  other's  ears  by  a  new  burst  of  song. 

"Nita,  Juanita,  ask  thy  soul  if  we  must 
part,"  sang  the  glad  voices — voices  caress 
ing  and  pledging  other  voices  as  the  glowing 
harmony  rose. 

"Flitting,  flitting  away, 

All  that  we  cherish  most  dear; 
The  violets  pass  with  the  May, 

The  roses  must  die  with  the  year." 

What  did  they  who  sang  know  of  the 
words  they  sang?  The  two  men  on  the  hill 
were  silent,  and  the  stars  gleamed  through 
moist  eyes.  There  was  a  lull  in  the  sing 
ing.  Neither  man  spoke  for  awhile,  then 
a  voice  said : 

"It  was  good,  wasn't  it?  —  like  old 
times." 

"Yes — old  times.  I  wish  they  would  go 
on  singing.  Are  you  tired?" 

"No;  I  would  never  tire  of  that,  would 
you?"  Then  from  somewhat  further  down 
the  street  came  the  song: 


A  Nocturne  21 1 

"In  the  evening  by  the  moonlight, 

You  could  hear  those  banjoes  ringing; 
In  the  evening  by  the  moonlight 
You  could  hear  those  voices  singing. 
How  the  old  folks  would  enjoy  it! 
They  would  sit  all  night  and  listen 
As  we  sang  in  the  evening 
By  the  moonlight." 

That  was  the  last  song.  The  comrades 
sat  for  a  few  moments  longer  with  lumpy 
throats,  and  then,  arm  in  arm,  walked  down 
the  hill.  At  the  parting  of  their  ways,  the 
song  each  had  been  humming  in  his  mind 
tried  to  find  their  lips: 

"How  the  old  folks — " 

It  broke  then  in  a  nervous  laugh,  and  a 
flash  of  interrogatory  silence.  Then  — 

"Yes,  Jim  —  you  see  it,  too." 

And  he  who  was  addressed  replied:  "I 
knew  you  would  understand." 

"I  suppose,  Jim,  we  are  old  folks.  It  is 
our  part  now  'to  sit  all  night  and  listen.' 

"To  listen  and  dream,  Joe  —  I  think  we 
never  understood  the  words  before." 

And  so  they  parted,  there  under  the 
night  and  the  stars,  and  each  fumbled  over 


ill  The  Real  Issue 

and  over  in  his  heart  that  new  phrase,  "old 
folk" — while  the  tune  gamboled  lightly 
through  a  dozen  hearts  that  night,  and 
chased  lovers'  phantasies  out  into  the  star- 
dimpled  field  of  dreams,  out  into  the  night, 
and  the  summer  and  the  moon  and  the 
quiet  of  the  country,  large,  and  sweet,  and 
wistful  as  an  absent  sweetheart's  musings  — 
herself  gazing  out  at  the  moonlit  night. 


PRINTED  AT  THE   LAKESIDE    PRESS 

BY   R.  R.    DONNELLEY  AND   SONS   CO 

MDCCCXCVI 


Date  Due 


TAT      NJO      74     Ifil 


A     000  664  000     7 


Kansas 


nes 


